A Haven in a Heartless World
by Xela Xe
Summary: Sam sees Dean for the first time in four years at his graduation from Stanford. This sets of a chain of events that shows family is the only haven in a heartless world, and no one knows this better than the Winchesters. Sam/Dean
1. Book One: Prologue and Chapter 1

**Title**: a haven in a heartless world  
**Pairing**: Sam/Dean  
**Rating**: R  
**Word Count**: 72,000 total  
**Summary**: [Alternate season 1] A lot can happen in four years. People grow and change and life goes on. Sam sees Dean for the first time in four years at his graduation from Stanford. This sets of a chain of events that make them acknowledge past mistakes, present desires, and future plans. They both have secrets—some big, some small; some tiny and fragile and the biggest secret of them all—not to mention a wealth of history between them. But family is the only haven in a heartless world, and no one knows this better than the Winchesters.  
Warnings: language; slashy sexy times; canon character death  
**A/N**: In its full form, this is an NC-17 fic. However, certain parts have been edited/redacted to conform with 's TOS.This story has already been completed; I will be posting it in parts fairly regularly.

* * *

Prologue:

"Something's coming. Darkness on the horizon." Missouri Mosely turns troubled eyes to the shadowed figure in her doorway.

"You feel it too?" John Winchester's voice comes out low and gravely, heavy with exhaustion and fear.

"I do." Missouri offers her tarot deck, watching as John chooses a card at random. She knows what it is even before he throws the Ten of Pentacles in reverse. Family Misfortune. Caution.

John stares at it, and a cold feeling of foreboding crawls up his spine.

***

"Hey, beautiful," Dean murmurs. Sleepy eyes blink up at him, and Dean can't help but run his hands through her hair, light brown curls tangling in his fingers. "I gotta go now, but I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Okay," she mumbles thickly, leaning into his hand. She smiles at him, lazy and wide, and Dean gives into the urge to lean down and press a kiss to her forehead.

"I love you," he whispers. Part of him wants to crawl into bed with her and never let go, but he needs to do this, so he pulls himself away from her, forces himself to leave. He pauses at the bedroom door to watch Mer snuggle back in his bed, looking small and fragile. His need to protect her, keep her safe, wells up in him, makes his head spin. He wants to leave so he can fight anything that might harm her; he wants to stay so he can protect her from the world.

He checks the salt lines on the window sill and the protective runes painted on the walls one last time before he goes, closing the door softly behind him.

It never gets any easier.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

"Clark Waits. Melody Weathers. Teagan White. Samuel Winchester."

Dean shoves his hands further into his pockets as he catches his first look at Sam in nearly four years. His brother is taller that when he left, a little broader. Grew into his gangly teenage body. But the most obvious change is his smile. Open and carefree and happy. Content.

A group of people in the audience whoop and cheer as Sam receives his diploma, a bright white piece of paper tied with a bow. Four years of separation, all for this moment. Sam pumps his fist triumphantly in the air as he exits the stage and retakes his seat, still grinning broadly, rolled scrap of paper clutched in his hand.

Dean spends the rest of the graduation ceremony staring at the back of Sam's head, thankful that their last name is close to the end of the alphabet. Otherwise, he'd loose his mind waiting for the rest of the world to have their moment in the limelight.

The people around him are making him itch: the bored siblings who have either been there, done that or are secretly yearning for their chance; weepy mommas, this moment bittersweet as their chicks really do grow up; proud puffed-up poppas who are busy pretending not to be weepy.

"Thank fuck," he grumbles when it's finally over. He wades through the crowd, trying to get a glimpse of Sammy. He has no idea what he'll say after four years of silence, but Sam deserves to know someone was here to see him graduate. That they hadn't deserted him, even if Sam had jumped ship without a backwards glance.

Dean almost runs over him. He turns around and Sam's right behind him, kissing some bottle blond with great tits, hands sliding down down down. Dean watches, frozen, as Sam and his girl are mobbed by enthusiastic college kids and recent graduates.

There it is, right in front of him: Sammy living the life he's always wanted. Normal. Wife, 2.5 kids, white picket fence, clean-cut friends with no dark pasts. The dog Dad never let them have.

Promises of the future that Dean can't give him.

Dean backs away and heads for his car, proud to say he watched Sam walk at his college graduation. He sincerely hopes Sammy enjoys normal, has a wonderful life. That it doesn't disappoint him.

----

"Samuel Winchester, Stanford grad!" Mike crows, pulling Sam into a giant bear hug. Sam laughs and messes up Mike's carefully gelled hair. Then Jess is there, looking gorgeous and happy. He ignores the catcalls and jeers when she kisses him, raking her nails against his scalp. He slides his hands under her ass, the cheap nylon of her graduation gown thin enough that he can feel the lack of underwear under her dress. She giggles into the kiss when he groans and they break apart gasping for air, goofy grins on their faces.

"Jeeze, dude!" Jerry punches him in the shoulder and Sam tenses. Not even four years of college have broken him of his father's conditioning. "Hot people shouldn't be allowed to get together. Y'all drove that dude away! He took one look at you and vamoosed, couldn't take the heat." Jerry licks his finger and touches it to Sam's ass, making a sizzling noise. Sam rolls his eyes and glances over his shoulder where Jerry pointed. He doesn't see anyone at first, but the crowd parts just right and Sam forgets how to breathe. He only catches a fleeting glimpse of his brother's back, but Sam would know Dean anywhere.

"I'll be right back," Sam mutters, taking off after Dean.

"Sam? Where ya going? Dude! Sam!" Jerry yells. But Sam's gone, daily runs at bumfuck in the morning serving him well.

Sam stumbles when he catches his first good look at Dean, in profile, waiting for the light to change. Dean looks...like Dean. Ancient beat-up leather jacket, worn jeans, short hair.

"Dean!"

Dean is waiting to cross the street when he hears someone call his name. His heart rate picks up, and he stares at the light, commanding it to change. Fuck it, he's in California. Pedestrian has the right of way, right? He jogs across the street, ignoring the increasingly loud calls.

"Dean!" Sam's hand lands hot and heavy on Dean's shoulder, and he pauses to savor the touch and collect himself before turning around. They both ignore the fact that he was running away.

"Hey, Sammy," he says, cocky grin firmly in place, his tone insolent and breezy.

"_Dean,_" Sam breathes, his hand clutching his brother's shoulder. His brother. Who's here. After four years. Sam tries to think of something—anything—to say, but his mind is still caught on _Dean_ being _here_. At his graduation.

"Um...Sam?" Dean glances at the hand on his shoulder pointedly.

Sam blushes and yanks his hand away. "So, uh, what are you doing? Here, I mean."

Dean shrugs nonchalantly. "Was in the area." They both know it's a complete and utter lie. They both let it go and subside into an awkward silence. Dean shifts from foot to foot, hands jammed deep in his jacket pockets, eyes skittering around. It never used to be this hard. He has too much to say; doesn't know where to start. "So, I'm gonna just—"

"Stay," Sam blurts before Dean can make his excuses and leave. If Dean disappears now Sam is pretty sure it'll be another four years before they see each other again. It's painfully obvious Dean had never meant for Sam to know he was here. "There's this party. At my place. Tonight. I'd, uh..."

"Okay," Dean agrees. He doesn't allow himself to think about how easy it had been to make that decision. Sam's smile makes him feel...well, just feel.

****

"Sam, what's up with you tonight?" Jess laughs. Sam has developed some kind of weird OCD in the three hours since he graduated, checking and rechecking everything in the apartment. He's even vacuumed. Before today, Jess would've sworn up one side and down the other that Sam was allergic to cleaning.

"Do we have the Jack Daniel's and Johnnie Walker Black Label?" Sam asks. Jess watches in amazed horror as Sam actually moves the couch so he can get underneath it.

"Seriously, Sam, what the hell's going on?"

Sam pauses in his frenetic cleaning, eyeing Jess speculatively. "Ah, well. At graduation? I ran into...there was...Dean."

"Dean?" Jess purrs suggestively, sidling up to Sam. Her hands travel over Sam's pecs, down to his abs. "And who is Dean? An ex?" She licks Sam's ear and chuckles when he gasps.

Sam groans, old memories struggling towards the surface. "He's...oh God, he's my..." Sam growls and kisses her, tumbling them both onto the couch. Jess giggles and wraps her legs around his waist. "Off, off!" Sam paws at her jeans and she laughs at him again, muttering something about cavemen. Jess, with her marvelous, wonderful fingers, unzips her jeans and Sam wedges his hand in the snug material of her panties. Lacy, frilly things that are smokin' hot but hide all the best parts. She tries to tug his shirt off, but he's only willing to give up the one arm, so it hangs haphazardly on his body. He's just about to get to the good stuff when the fucking doorbell rings.

He and Jess curse in unison. Someone starts banging on the door and ringing bell incessantly.

"Hey! Lovebirds! Stop fucking on the couch and open the door!"

"I hate Mike," Sam growls. Jess giggles and bites him right above his nipple. He kisses her hungrily, because he _loves_ Jess's kinks and his cock pulses hungrily between his legs and he _can_. "Seriously. Loath."

"Oooooh, you're pulling out the big words!" Jess says breathlessly.

"It's five letters," Sam jokes, smiling down at her.

"Come on, open the goddamn door or I'm looking through the windows!" Mike hollers.

"I bet they're on the floor," Jerry muses helpfully. "It always takes them longer when they're on the floor."

Sam swears viciously, pulling his shirt back on and watching sadly as Jess zips herself back up.

"Later tonight," she promises huskily. Sam whimpers; Jess always keeps her promises. She sashays to the door with an extra swish to her hips. Sam's idiot friends—because she sure as hell isn't claiming them right now—grin at her from the stoop.

"Damn, girl, it's about time. Did he at least get you off?"

"Shut the hell up, Mikey," Jess warns.

"I'm just sayin'," Mike protests, pushing his way inside, arms full of alcohol, "that we gotta make sure Sam's taking care of his girl half as good as his boys."

"Haha," Sam grumbles sarcastically, stealing one of Mike's beers. He's been dating Jess since sophomore year, and he's only had two—no, one sort-of boyfriend.

"Dude! Not cool!" Mike protests. Sam sticks his tongue out at his friend.

"Jesus, Jess, you really went overboard with the cleaning," Jerry observes. "You and Sam realize you hadn't christened the rug under the couch or something?"

Before Sam has a chance to respond, the doorbell rings again. Jerry and Mike stare at the door with narrowed, offended eyes.

"You suddenly have a couple of other best friends who're willing to annoy you early, Sambo?" Mike asks with mock affront.

"I'd need a couple of best friends first," Sam fires back, tossing his empty beer can at Mike's head. Jess rolls her eyes at their antics and goes to answer the door. God DAMN.

The guy standing on her doorstep is _gorgeous_. He's shorter than Sam (who isn't?), with beautiful green eyes and a tight, hot body. He's exactly Sam's type, and she lets her eyes travel over him. Nice. Very nice.

"You must be Dean." The guy smiles at her, and Jess feels her body react to him of its own accord. Oh yeah, definitely Sam's type. She leans against the doorjamb, molding to it in the way that had driven Sam into her bed the first time. Dean gives her a slow, appreciative once-over.

"Sam sure knows how to pick 'em," she says with a grin, and Dean couldn't agree more.

"Jess? Who's at the door?" Sam comes around the bend and stops when he sees his brother. Dean is actually here. Sam blinks, but Dean's still standing there. He knows he's staring but he can't stop. Dean came.

"I got bored," Dean offers, and Sam can hear the veiled undercurrent of discomfort. Sam smiles softly at him, a warm glow that fills the empty spaces in Dean's chest.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, unable to stop the goofy smile on his face. Jess glances between the two of them, feeling the undercurrent of something deep jump between them. She briefly wonders if things are good enough between them for a threesome. They can't be so bad off if Dean showed up for Sam's graduation, right?

"Why don't you come in, I'm sure we can unbore you," Jess offers and motions Dean in. The air of vulnerability disappears behind a smooth mask of cocky self-assurance.

****

Dean relaxes in his seat, half-full tumbler of Black Label in his hand. He lets the chatter of Sam's college friends flow around him. They're alright people, harmless enough. Completely naïve, babes in the woods, but that's probably why Sammy likes them. And he can tell they truly like Sam, which puts them a step above the majority of fucktards in the world.

Sam keeps stealing little glances at him. If he thinks Dean isn't catching them, Sam is sorely out of practice. Or college has made him dumber. That's always a possibility.

"So Dean, tell us something." Dean turns his attention to Mike, a red-headed cut-up with an easy smile. Dean takes a sip of his whisky, raising his eyebrows in expectation. "When'd you date Sambo here?" Dean chokes on his drink, the alcohol burning his throat as it works its way down his windpipe. He turns and glares at Sam. Jess's flirting makes so much more sense now. And it means Sam has never told his friends about him. They probably don't even know Sam has a brother. Sam catches the look and glances away.

"Yeah," Jess adds, "I thought I knew about all his boys."

"Dean's not my..." Sam trails off, because...no. Sam clears his throat. "Dean's my brother."

"Your what now?" Jerry asks.

"Oh my God," Jess breaths, looking at Dean with awed eyes. Dean shifts uncomfortably in his chair. "Oh my God, this...this is your older brother?" Jess smacks Sam with a pillow. "You should have told me! Jesus, Sam!" She turns to Dean, her eyes alight with questions. Dean knows what's coming, and Jess will be sorely disappointed if she honestly thinks he'll tell her anything about their past. "You're about the only part of his family he's ever talked about. And it took me two years to pry the information out of him." Sam blushes and covers his face with his hands. He does _not_ need Dean hearing these things, knowing that Sam's affections run this deep.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, smirking. The information leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He tries to wash it away with Scotch whisky, but not even Johnny can cut the taste of bitter disappointment. "Like what?"

"You have a brother?" Mike explodes staring at Dean like it's his fault Sam's a bastard.

"He does," Dean says smoothly. "He doesn't like that I'm hotter, so he doesn't talk about me much." Sam resists the urge to throw his beer bottle at Dean's head.

----

Jess corners Sam when they party is in full swing and Dean is occupied hitting on all of Jess's attractive friends (of which there are many).

"Why didn't you tell me it was him?" she hisses, dumping an armful of cans in the recycling bin. "You let me think he was...and I was..." Sam turns and presses her against the refrigerator.

"You may recall," he says in her ear, "that I was trying to tell you when you _distracted_ me!" Jess's express turns sultry and minx-like.

"Oh, I distracted you, did I?" Sam nods, nibbling at her full lips. "Then I think I should apologize." She cups Sam through his jeans, massaging his half-hard cock through the layers.

"Whoa, sorry, just wanted another beer," Dean says, not sounding sorry at all. Sam glares at Dean, who holds his hands up, all innocence and apology. Sam snorts. Dean, innocent. Yeah, right.

Jess slips from beneath Sam, heading back towards the party. "You boys catch up. I'm going to be a good hostess."

For the first time, Dean and Sam are well and truly alone.

"Girl's hot, dude. My little Sammy, all growned up." Dean tilts his head back and chugs, emptying almost a whole beer straight into his stomach. When he rights himself, Sam's eyes are focused on his chin where one errant drop has escaped.

Sam clears his throat and his head. "Yeah, Jess is...she's great."

Dean quenches the jealousy at San's butter-soft tone, eyes gazing off into the distance and looking like the penultimate chick-flick Fabio with his long flowing hair. Dean reaches down to check his manhood. Still there, thank God. He pops open another beer.

"She's a little out of your league though, Sammy."

"Shut up," Sam says, blushing. It's not strictly untrue. They subside into awkward silence, neither of them sure of what to say. Four years is a long time.

"What about you?" Sam asks. "You got..." he waves his hands expressively, trailing off because this is Dean. God's gift to women and the occasional very lucky guy. Sam had been Dean's only—he cuts that thought off before it even has a chance to form.

"I do." Sam almost misses the soft admission, uttered with reverence.

Sam blinks. "...you do?" To say Sam is shocked doesn't quite cover it. And he doesn't think about the knot that's developed in his stomach.

"Yeah, she's my—"

"Saaaaaaaaaaaambo!" Two drunk-looking frat boys burst into the small room looking for Sam to do a keg stand, and the moment is gone.


	2. Book One: Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**** Pilot**

Dean groans, the dull ache in his back waking him up well before he wants to be awake and alert. He rolls off the couch and into a crouch, twisting his spine so it cracks. Damn that feels good.

Dean wrinkles his nose as the scent of stale beer and drunk people invaded his senses. He only ever goes to college parties because the girls are easy on the eyes and easier in bed, but they aren't worth it if he doesn't get any. And he definitely doesn't crash on lumpy couches that destroy his back when he has a perfectly good, if dubiously decorated, motel room at his disposal.

So why had he done this again?

Oh, yeah. Because Sam had _asked_ him to, with those big puppy dog eyes and drunk sloppy grin.

Dean scowls and wades through the discarded beer cans, navigates a pool of something toxic, and finds his leather jacket safely tucked away in the hall closet. He ignores a drunken coed sprawled on the floor and fishes his phone out of his pocket.

He has to hand it to Sammy though: his baby brother knows how to throw a party.

His phone beeps as he turns it on, blinking one new voicemail. Dean slips out onto the front stoop to dial his message service. His father's voice crackles through the line, a relief after silence for so many days.

"Dean, something...is starting to happen I...ink it's...I need to...what's going...you may need S...to help you. Be very careful, Dean. T...care of her."

"I can never go home." The hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up at the woman's voice, something undeniably supernatural about it. Clearest fucking EVP he's ever heard. "I can never go home."

"Dean?" He spins around, reaching instinctively for a gun that isn't there. Sam is standing in the doorway, hair flying in every direction, eyes misty with sleep. He yawns and stretches, his threadbare sleep-shirt riding up to show a pale patch of skin, darker hairs disappearing into the waistband of his sweats. The look on Dean's face wakes Sam up. "What's wrong?"

Dean hits replay and passes Sam the phone without a word. Sam's jaw tightens as he listens to the message.

"That's the first I've heard from him in a few days. Something's wrong."

"You know how Dad gets during a hunt. The connection is just bad, he was probably just checking in." Sam would have an easier time convincing Dean if he actually believed the shit he's trying to sell.

"And the ghost at the end?" Sam's lips press together. "I'm going to find him," Dean says, turning towards where he's parked the Impala. Dad's a few hours away, he can be there by dusk. Sam watches his brother walk away, and something inside pushes him towards Dean. Four years is a long time to be angry, to carry around the weight of his family. His regrets. He makes his choice in an instant.

"Hey. Give me a minute and I'll go with you." Sam doesn't think too hard about what prompts him to go on one last foray into the life he's tried so hard to escape. He's out, has a full ride to Stanford law...but at what cost?

This is the first time he's seen or heard from Dean in three years. One call in between freshman and sophomore year and Sam had still been too wrapped up in himself to return the call. He'd realized over the course of the night how much he's missed Dean, how no one can fill that particular place in his heart—not even Jess. Sam chalks it up to gut instinct; that's the first thing Dean had taught him about hunting, after all, trusting his gut.

Dean studies Sam and finally nods, uncharacteristically silent, and follows Sam back inside the house. He's itching to get on the road, find Dad, but he'll be patient for Sammy. They still have to go by his motel and check him out, pick up his stuff but...to have Sam sitting in the passenger seat again, the world as it should be? Dean can't pass that up. And he can always hope.

Jess is sitting at the kitchen counter, a pot of coffee beside her.

"Everything okay?" she asks, glancing between the two brothers.

"Our Dad may be in trouble, he hasn't checked in for a while. We're gonna go look for him," Sam tells her, worried at how easy it is to slip back into half-truths and lies of omission. He kisses her lightly, acutely aware of Dean's gaze. "I should only be gone a couple of days—a week at the most."

"I hope he's alright," Jess murmurs, face open and sympathetic.

"I'm sure he's fine. Dad always comes through in the end—the man's indestructible. But still..."

"You worry," Jess says with an understanding smile. She runs her hands affectionately through Sam's floppy hair and Dean has to look away. The familiarity of it all, the intimacy between them. He feels like an intruder in Sam's happy, normal life.

"I'm gonna go pack. Take care of Dean for me?" He pauses for one last kiss before thundering up the stairs. Dean's discomfort grows once Sam is out of the room. Jess is studying him in that annoying way all the women not interested in what he has to offer tend to do. Like they want to burrow into him and find out what makes him tick. And now she's looking at him with sad, understanding eyes.

He really doesn't want to be alone with Jess and her well-meaning looks of concern. He especially doesn't want to get to know her as Sammy's girlfriend—though he can't help thinking, again, that Sam has great taste in women—because even after four years it still fucking hurts.

"You're really worried about your dad, huh?" she asks. Dean raises an eyebrow in question but doesn't offer anything else. Jess fidgets. "Sam told me about your dad. A little. Not much. I kind of thought...I mean, I used to think your dad...that he..." Jess trails off uncomfortably and she distracts herself with her coffee. Her face is bright red and, in a flash, Dean gets what she's talking about.

He straightens and gets utterly, blindingly mad at Sam because what Jess is suggesting? No. Absolutely not. How could Sam let anyone—

Jess steps back from him, quick to go on, "No, no, Sam set me straight. Promised nothing like...that...happened. There are just these scars that he won't talk about, and things about his past he avoids. I found out about you by accident and then couldn't shut him up, but he never let anything slip about his dad. So I get the feeling he's going more because you're upset rather than because he thinks something's really wrong." Dean covers his surprise by draining the rest of his coffee, lets the bitter liquid slide hot into his stomach. When he comes up for air, Jess is looking at him with amazed respect. The loud clatter of Sam's giant feet on the steps is a godsend.

"Got everything?" Dean asks, setting his cup down.

"All the essentials," Sam says agreeably. He scoops Jess up, presses her against the table and slips some tongue into the kiss. Dean turns away, their affection and easy rapport making his stomach churn. Jesus, when did he turn into...this? He mentally snaps himself out of it. They have a hunt and it's time to get on the road. Dean noisily slurps at the dredges of his coffee, telling Sam in no uncertain passive-aggressive terms to hurry the hell up.

"Call me when you get there?" Jess asks.

"Of course," Sam agrees, staring deep into her eyes. Dean groans and bangs his head against the wall. This is like a really bad chick flick. The wet sounds of kissing fill the air and he starts hammering his head against the unforgiving surface. Sam breezes by him, bag slung over his shoulder.

"You coming?" he calls over his shoulder. Dean feels the age-old urge to kill his brother rise up. For the first time in years Dean feels utterly content.

****

Things are at once comfortably familiar and awkwardly new. Sam sits in the passenger seat of the Impala like he never left, the leather welcoming him like an old friend. Sam's fingers drum against his knee and he stares out at the passing scenery.

In the intervening years, Dean has never quite adapted to Sam's absence, even going so far as to pick up the occasional hitchhiker just to make the unforgiving silence go away. But the reality of Sam being here is harder and more complex than he'd remembered or imagined. He doesn't know what to say to his new, college-educated baby brother. Doesn't know where to start cataloguing all the changes _he_ has gone through since Sam left—though Mer would be the logical place to start.

Besides, Sam graduated the other day. He has a shiny piece of paper filled with calligraphy that says he's smart. Sam should notice things. And Dean knows his brother, so eventually Sam's going to start asking questions and want to talk and Dean...is going to fight him for a little while then give in. But only a little bit. Just enough so that Sam can fill in the blanks and Dean can pretend it never happened.

"I'm gonna ask Jess to marry me," Sam says into the silence. Well. Sammy never does do things by half. That's the Winchester in him, Dad to the core; the both have a nasty habit of dropping A-Bombs out of the blue. 'You're not going on this one, Dean.' 'I've paired up with another hunter, why don't you take a break, Dean?' 'I'm leaving for college, talk to you in four years when I stumble upon you at my graduation, Dean.' 'I'm going to marry Jane Normal and have 2.3 kids, a dog, a white picket fence and normal normalcy, Dean.'

But really, it's not THAT much of a surprise because Jess is hot, into Sam, comes with a great rack and a nice ass. Why _wouldn't_ Sam marry her?

Still, it's one thing to know and another thing to _know_.

Dean's nails bite into the leather of the steering wheel, and he lets up on his grip before he maims his baby.

"You knock her up or something?" he asks, proud that his voice comes out low and mocking. Sam scowls and punches Dean in the shoulder. Dean grins the most cocky, obnoxious smirk he owns.

"Jerk," Sam mutters prissily.

"Bitch," Dean returns happily. And suddenly they're bickering again, like they never stopped. As if Stanford never happened and Jess wasn't around. Sam still pretends to hate Dean's music while popping in his favorite Metallica tape. Dean sneaks a bean burrito at their last gas stop and Sam places that particular Dean-smile seconds before the first SBD-bomb hits. They pull into a crappy motel; Sam scowls at Evan Lorne's credit card paying their way, and they fall into their separate beds. It's a little weird when Sam shuts and locks the door to change clothes, but Dean's determined not to be too much of a jerk on this trip, and Sam's kept the bitchfaces to a minimum. Sam is almost asleep when Dean puts on a porn called "Werewolf Women of the SS."

****

They find Dad's journal, a woman in white, and a new set of cops out for their blood in Centennial. Business as usual. Dad is long gone, nothing but a few coordinates (their marching orders as a goodbye). Sam doesn't miss this at all.

Sam stares out the window, jaw tight, pissed at Dad all over again because he always pulls this shit without thinking about what it does to Dean; he never considers a few words would be all it took to smooth things over. John Winchester's always taking Dean for granted, his perfect soldier. Sam's not sure which he hates more: Dean's attitude or Dad's. Blind faith versus blind stubbornness.

They pull up in front of Sam's house, the Impala idling with a purr.

"You gonna follow those coordinates?" Sam asks, even though he knows the answer.

Dean shrugs. "It's something to do."

"Alright. Well, uh, give me a call sometime, okay? It's...been too long." Dean's look is inscrutable, and Sam shifts under its weight.

"You have a phone too, Sammy. Number hasn't changed." Dean feels a petty, vicious surge of satisfaction when Sam flushes and can't meet his eyes.

"You'll call me if you find him? Maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?"

"Yeah, alright." Dean's tone isn't promising. Sam nods and retrieves his duffle out of the back. Sam turns to head for the house, and Dean can't help it. "Sam! You know, we made a hell of a team back there." Sam smiles tightly, hand gripping the side of the car.

"Yeah," he agrees. Because they really do. Did.

Sam trudges up the steps to his house, feet strangely heavy. Dean watches him go, watches Sam walk away from him again. The house is dark and uninviting as Dean pulls away, something sinister itching at the back of his mind.

----

Sam dumps his bag in the foyer and wearily makes his way up stairs.

Fuck.

This whole debacle has awakened the part of him that lusts after the adrenalin rush of a hunt, craves the feeling of taking out something dangerous and saving lives. It makes him uneasy. When he came to Stanford his need for stability and acceptance had drowned out the voice, subdued and pushed it aside. Forced himself to be content with early morning runs and the occasional kata.

But now the need is wide awake and he can feel it in his chest, restless and growing. What does that mean for him and Jess? If he can't control it, if she isn't enough to force it back again...

He flops down on the bed, exhausted. All he wants to do is sleep. His problems will still be there in the morning. He thinks he feels something wet on his forehead, but ignores it. When he feels it again, Sam opens his eyes and the world explodes into flames.


	3. Book One: Chapter 3

Dean and Sam spend a week looking for the demon that killed Jess. A week looking for a lead, a week since Sam said, focused and intense, "We have work to do." A week away from home.

Dean sighs. Sam is upset and he doesn't know how to fix it. He's asked—okay, maybe not in so many words, but Sam understood—and all he'd gotten were mumbled assurances that Sam is alright. Sam is not alright. Sam is a lying liar.

Dean can sense the darkness in his brother—can always sense it with Sam, even miles away. Sam's in pain, and his emotions ricochet through Dean's brain leaving dark bruises on his psyche and a headache in their wake. But there isn't anything Dean can do if Sam won't let him.

So here they are, in a hotel half-way to Blackwater Ridge, Colorado. Following Dad's coordinates.

Dean needs to make a phone call. He steps outside and scans for Sam—not that he can miss Sasquatch or anything—while the phone rings. Dean thinks he hears Sam over by the vending machines, but he can't be sure. Someone picks up the phone before he can investigate.

"'lo?" Dean's heart jumps and a sappy smile takes over his face, but he can't help it.

"Hey, baby girl. How ya doing?" Dean has to pull the phone away from his ear with a laugh, Mer's happy squeal nearly deafening him.

"I'm great! Whit and I went shopping." Dean winces. Those two shopping? Never a good sign. Especially for his bank account. "When're you coming home?"

"I dunno, Mer. I, uh, got caught up in something big. But I'll be home as soon as I can, okay?" Dean holds his breath, waiting for her to say something. "Mer?"

"You promise?" Dean leans his head against the deck's support post, hating the tremulous note in his girl's voice. Because no, he can't promise. He needs to do this for Sam, see this out for as long as Sam wants to. Needs to. And he doesn't want to choose between them. "It's okay," Mer assures him, utterly sincere. It's worse, that she really means it. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. "We're doing okay."

"Yeah," Dean mutters. He can hear the strain in his own voice.

----

Sam balances his armful of junk food, cursing as a Twinkie falls to the ground. He trips over his feet in an attempt not to step on it and fails miserably. He ends up flat on his ass, one crushed Twinkie and various sugary non-foods scattered around him.

This is officially the lowest point of his life.

He sighs and stands up, but sinks back down when he catches sight of Dean's silhouette against the door, phone pressed to his ear. He looks...focused. Intent.

Sam hunkers down, feeling bad about eavesdropping on Dean's conversation...oh, who is he kidding? He so doesn't. Dean has been elusive about this Mer chick he's hooked up with. Sam is really interested in meeting whoever caught Dean's attention so completely because Dean? Not the settling down kind of guy.

"Swear on my life, Mer. I won't be gone much longer." Dean sounds like each word hurts him to speak and for the first time Sam realizes that his brother has a life he's putting on hold for Sam. The selfish part of Sam is smugly pleased that Dean still places Sam above all others. That selfish part of Sam? Also hates this Mer person.

"Promise," Dean says, heartfelt. "I love you, too." Dean hangs up the phone, his throat tight. He scrubs a hand through his hair and shakes it off; time to make sure Sam hasn't gotten himself kidnapped by the local bad guy.

Sam hears Dean's footsteps approaching and throws himself at the scattered candy, trying to make it look like he's just pulled his klutz act.

"Need some help there, Sammy?"

"Nah, you know...just...whatever." Dean smirks and helps Sam gather up their dinner. He briefly considers eating the crushed Twinkie anyways before he catches Sam's look.

"It's wrapped in plastic!" he protests. Sam rolls his eyes in disgust. He and Dean reach for the same candy bar and the tips of their fingers brush.

****

Something is bothering Sam. Again. More than normal. Dean can feel the tight knot of anxiety in the part of his brain labeled 'Sam,' sure. But he can also see it: his brother is wearing Bitchface #24, which isn't a pure Bitchface as it comes with a huge, steaming side of Guiltface. Sam is probably thinking about Jess again, blaming himself in some twisted way for the demon killing her.

"Wanna drive for a while?" Dean offers, more to break the silence than anything else.

"Dean, your whole life, you never asked me to drive."

Dean shrugs noncommittally, because so what? He can make sacrifices and learn to be sensitive and shit. "Thought you might want to. Never mind."

Sam rolls his eyes and goes back to brooding out the window while Dean settles in for the long haul to Colorado. He doesn't really expect Dad to be there, but they can't not go. Searching for Dad is the only thing keeping Sammy with him right now, so Dean? Totally willing to roll with it. Besides, he'd picked up a My Little Pony at their last gas stop. It would be a shame to let it go to waste.

They don't find Dad, but they do find a Wendigo and a groups of kids banding together to help each other out after their parents' death. It hits pretty close to home, so he and Sam busily do not acknowledge the similarities of their situations or the closeness of the siblings. Which just means everything they're not saying is always there, strung out between them.

That one moment, where they both went for the same knife and ended up practically holding hands over the blade, didn't really help either. Sam gets quiet and intense and hides under his hair.

Dean ignores Sam's side-long looks and emo-brooding. It's just further proof that Sam's a giant girl, a conclusion compounded by the fact that when Dean gets himself abducted, Sam worries himself into a period. (Though the part of Dean that doesn't get to come out and play thinks it's kind of nice to know his brother really cares after all. That he doesn't get as wrapped up in the hunt and revenge as Dad always does.) They're both pretty beat up when they get into the car to drive to the next hunt. Dean doesn't even fight with Sam for the car keys, or complain about the stupid music he insists on playing.

"I'm never going camping again," Sam mutters, flicking dirt and loam off his shirt. Dean smirks at him and slips further down in the seat. Sam sets out going East on 78, and Dean feels the call of Home and Mer, snuggled in a small town in Iowa. When he takes over the driving, he'll start moving them that way. 78 to 80 to 178 to Baker's Avenue. And eventually, he'll get around to telling Sam. Maybe before they're standing in front of his actual, true-to-God house. Or in front of Mer. Whichever comes first.

----

They get sidetracked by another hunt, and Dean doesn't know whether to be pleased or nervous. He gets a stay of execution, and Wisconsin really isn't _that_ far from Iowa. He calls Mer every night, and she never again asks when he's coming home. He almost wishes she would. This new case they're working on is rough.

Lucas, the painfully shy kid who may be the key to their case, pulls at Dean's heartstrings. So young, so lost. Sam's shocked that Dean's actually good with kids. That Dean likes kids.

"Kids are the best? You don't even like kids!"

"I love kids!" Of course Dean likes kids—they get him. Kids know how to live. People waiting on you hand and foot, buying you shit, thinking you're adorable. When you say inappropriate things, you're just being so gosh-darn cute. Kids are awesome.

"Name three children that you even know." Dean could name an entire class of kids, doesn't know where to start. Sam scoffs dismissively. "Forget it."

"I'm thinking!" Sam rolls his eyes and walks away. So much for that.

----

Lucas seems to have some sort of connection to whatever is killing people. Sam makes a throw-away comment about trauma making kids psychic and Dean tenses for a second before relaxing. No way Sam knows. Sam's oblivious; he's never thought to ask why Dean came bursting through the door after he'd already driven away the night Jess died, or the hundred other little things that he's done over the course of their lives.

Besides, it's not a big deal. It only really works with the people Dean loves, and that's a mighty short list. There's a total of three living people on it, though sometimes Cassie still tugs at the edges of his consciousness, vague impressions of intense emotion.

Lucas pings. Dean doesn't know how to describe it any other way. Some people just resonate, like he needs them to be okay. Lucas is one of them. Even after all the years going soft at Stanford, Sam recognizes it too, realizes there's something special about this hunt.

Dean crouches down and sketches out a picture of his family, pointedly ignoring Sam. He takes special care with Mom: her stick-body is straighter, her arms and legs more symmetrically placed. He pushes his drawing towards Lucas.

"This is my family. That's my dad, that's my mom, that's my geek brother, and that's me." He swears Lucas pauses and his lips quirk. "Okay, so I'm a sucky artist." Dean takes a moment to gather his thoughts and organizes what he wants to say. He's incredibly aware of Sam and Andrea hovering in the background, but he'll only get one chance with Lucas.

"You're scared," Dean says to the kid, but this is about more than that. "It's okay, I understand. See, when I was your age, I saw something real bad happen to my mom, and I was scared, too. I didn't feel like talking, just like you. But see, my mom—I know she wanted me to be brave. I think about that every day. And I do my best to be brave. And maybe...maybe your dad wants you to be brave, too."

There's a sudden stillness to Lucas that isn't totally physical, and Dean watches with bated breath as the little boy quickly sketches out a picture and then thrusts it at Dean, watching him from the most peripheral edges of his vision.

Thus, with a combination of gumshoe detective work and Lucas's drawings, Dean and Sam uncover a decades-old murder. Dean's glad he never had a bike growing up, because it's creepy to dig through years of moss and detritus to unearth the once-red bicycle of a murdered kid. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth and the pull of Home gets stronger. Yet in spite of that, Dean's enjoying his time with Sam, getting to know his brother again. He wasn't lying those weeks ago (Jesus, that long?) when he said they made a good team. He's worked with other hunters over the last four years. None of them can read him like Sam. (Though to be fair, Dean never really has to work at avoiding chick-flick moments with any of the other hunters.)

But all of that just means that when Sam wakes Dean up at 5:45 in the morning (really, Sam, where i_does_/i the day go?), it's intentional. Just because Sam has insomnia doesn't mean he has to share it with Dean. Although the only time Dean gets any sleep is when Sam's not sleeping, because Dean listens to every whimper and strangled noise that makes it past Sam's throat when he's having a nightmare. It's a constant battle to keep himself on his bed, to respect Sam's boundaries even when everything in him wants to act like the big brother he is. Because that's part of the problem, too: he doesn't necessarily want to act like a big brother.

Taking Sam home is looking more and more like a good idea when he gets a call from an old friend in Pennsylvania. Fuck. Dean hates planes. And Pennsylvania.

****

Sam bangs on the bathroom door. "Dean!" he yells. The door swings open and Sam forgets why he was angry. Dean's got a towel wrapped around his waist, and he hasn't been slacking since Sam left. He's 26 and still...Dean. The towel wrapped around his head is ludicrous but so _him_ that Sam has to fight the smile threatening to chase away his scowl. "You've been in there forever."

Dean shoots Sam a look of affronted disdain. "You can't rush perfection."

Sam sits heavily on the bed when the door clicks closed. He thought he was done with...that. He'd met Jess and forgotten about everyone who came before.

_Not tru-ue,_ the ruthlessly truthful part of him sing-songs. Sam ignores it. Besides, it's a moot point. Dean has the mysterious Mer. No matter what Sam feels, he's not going to be that guy. Or that brother. And that's the end of that.

Sam gives a token protest for their Homeland Security cover—really, on the sliding scale of illegal shit, it's not i_that_/i bad, but he feels it's his duty to be the moral compass here. They're escorted back to the wreckage of the plane, spread out through the equivalent of two high school gyms. Dean pulls out some beat-up piece of equipment that would out them as impostors immediately should one of the guards come check up on them.

"What is that?" Sam asks.

"It's an EMF meter. It reads electromagnetic frequencies," Dean says. He's looking at Sam almost expectantly. If he was a dog, his tail would probably be wagging.

"I know what an EMF is," Sam says sarcastically. Just how out of practice does Dean think he is, exactly? "But why does that one look like a busted-up walkman?"

"Because that's what I made it out of. It's homemade."

"Yeah, I can see that," Sam mutters without thinking. He cringes when Dean deflates and realizes what a complete and utter jackass he is. Because honestly? It's actually kind of cool that Dean can do that. Sam sure as hell can't. And now Dean looks like Sam just kicked his puppy, and Sam _feels_ like he just kicked Dean's puppy. He's going to have to find some way to apologize because when they're not playing at homeland security, that thing could come in kind of handy.

Then the walkman buzzes and they've got a genuine case to work on.

****

Dean doesn't hate planes. Hate is reserved for things he can kill, or at least maim very, very badly. Planes? There are not words for how much Dean loathes them. Planes are a man-made disruption of the natural order of the world. They were probably engineered by people listening to a demonic muse.

Dean clutches at Sam's arm as the plane starts shaking. What the hell was he thinking, getting on an aircraft that's going to go down exactly 40 minutes into the flight? He keeps a hold of Sam's arm because as long as they're together, nothing's going to happen. And if it does? They're going down side-by-side. Sam lifts his hand off his arm, and Dean steels himself for the rejection and the terror of having nothing at all to anchor himself to.

It never comes. Sam settles Dean's hand into his own and threads their fingers together. Dean's so stunned that for a few minutes he forgets to panic. Then the plane dips and rattles and _fuck. This._

"Dean," Sam says, sounding ridiculously calm. "Just relax."

"Just try to shut up," Dean forces through gritted teeth.

"Everything's going to be alright, Dean."

"Sam, this plane is going to crash, okay? So quit treating me like I'm freakin' four!" Dean snaps. They both ignore how tightly he's holding on to Sam's hand.

"You need to calm down," Sam says rationally.

"Well, I'm sorry I can't!" Dean winces; that may have come out way more petulant than he wanted it to.

"Yes, you can," Sam says and when the fuck did Sam develop that kind of patience? It makes Dean mad, which is a nice change of pace from mind-numbing terror.

"Dude, stow the touchy-feely, self-help-yoga crap. It's not helping!" Sam just looks at him, utterly implacable, and Dean gives in. He sucks in a breath and tries to remember all of the breathing exercises he's ever seen parodied on TV. He swears he sees Sam's lips twitch when he purses his lips and breathes out. He feels like an idiot.

But it works.

He calms down, feels his heart rate return to normal, and soon he's all too aware that he's holding hands with Sam and they're about thirty minutes into their forty-minute flight. He pulls his hand away from Sam, who lets it go with only the barest resistance. The moment he's separated from Sam, though, the fear starts creeping back and it's all he can do to keep his cool.

Dean's really grateful when the demon makes itself known. It gives him something to focus on other than the fact that they're a million miles in the air with a thin sheet of metal between them and nothing. He throws himself into the fight with the co-pilot, rolling around in the service area. Sam recites Latin as fast as he can (which is so not fast enough, especially for the amount of talking Sam always wants to do), and Dean wonders why none of the passengers are even the least bit curious about the grunts and noises coming from behind the thin curtain. Then again, if there's one thing hunting has taught him, it's that people will only see what they want and are willfully blind.

But then it's done,. The co-pilot lays dazed on the ground and a bunch of travelers are scared out of their minds, and Sam's ignoring the crack the demon made about Jess. Sam gives Dean a hand up and holds on just a little longer than necessary. His eyes rove over Dean, intense. The first time, he's checking for wounds. The second time, he's just checking. It makes Dean's skin prickle with awareness. Sam's _looking_. It's hot, but it doesn't mean anything...except it does, and Dean's high enough on adrenaline that he decides to start running some tests to see just how interested Sam still is. He's going to be the annoying half-naked gnat in Sam's ear, reminding his brother what he gave up for a flimsy piece of paper all those years ago. He's got a couple shirts that are two sizes too small saved for occasions such as this.

So when they're firmly on solid ground—Dean's not embarrassed that he greets his Mother Earth with a reverent kiss and a full-bodied hug—he drags them to a bar and flirts with everything that has a pulse. Except for the really burly dude who smells like pickled pig's feet and gives 'butch' a whole new meaning. He keeps half an eye on Sam the whole time, but the bastard only glances at him long enough to know where he is in the room in case something goes down. In retaliation, Dean tries to find out exactly how many drinks he can con out of the bartenders.

----

Sam's been nursing the same beer all night, but he's seriously considering trading up. So far, Dean's gone through the room like a teenager on Viagra. He's currently situated at the bar, and Sam's tracking four simultaneous flirtations.

Though, interestingly enough, Dean's latest plays have been lacking follow-through. A lot of it has just been Dean's innate inability to not flirt since it's wired in his system like breathing. But still, even when it's a sure thing, Dean hasn't looked twice.

This is different. This is Dean on the prowl, looking for something. Someone. And Dean never goes home alone when he wants someone. Except Dean's supposed to be taken. He's got a girl waiting for him somewhere out in the world. He shouldn't be doing this.

Sam's lost in his thoughts when Dean plunks down in the booth. Not on the other side, but right next to Sam. Dean, who has conned at least ten drinks off the bartenders, is happily drunk. He cozies up to Sam and throws an arm around his shoulders.

"Sammy."

Sam rolls his eyes and tries to shove Dean off, but he won't be moved. "It's Sam," he mutters, though he knows it won't do any good. Dean grunts and presses his leg tight against Sam's. Dean's head starts lolling and Sam decides it's time to get him back to the hotel.

Easier said than done.

Dean alternates between being uncooperative dead-weight and an octopus. His hands are _everywhere_ and Sam's going to go insane if this keeps up. Sam dumps Dean onto his bed, and just when he thinks he's safe, Dean pulls him down so their bodies press together.

"Hey Sammy," Dean breathes. He's aroused, and his hands slip under Sam's shirt.

Sam swallows, tries to control his own reaction. "Go to sleep, Dean," he orders.

"Okay." He wraps his arms around Sam's body, snuggles into Sam's chest and falls asleep between one moment and the next. Sam doesn't have the heart to push Dean off—and for the first time since Jess died Sam sleeps without dreaming.

****

The entire Bloody Mary debacle gives Dean the heebie-jeebies. The phrase leaves a bad taste in his mouth and sends shivers up his spine. The psychotic murdering ghost-bitch is a relief next to that intangible feeling of _creep_.

Sam's been closed off since the night Dean got drunk. Even his emotions, usually unavoidably present in Dean's head, are diluted, like they're fighting to get through.

Dean backs off. Message received, though he doesn't know why he's getting Bitchface #11: you've done something morally reprehensible, feel guilty.

Sam's also been having nightmares, which are a more pressing issue. Sam wakes up screaming more nights that not. He'll eventually get over whatever is causing the bitchface. The nightmares about Jess? Not so much. Dean can smell the guilt, sharp and acidic. He can also smell there's a secret Sam's been keeping, but that's all tied up with Jess and Dean is so not going there. If Sam wants to drag him into a chick flick moment, well, Sam's a giant girl with man-feet. Dean is a perfectly proportioned bastion of masculinity with his priorities well in order.

But when Sam offers himself up to Mary like a sacrificial lamb, Dean can't take it anymore. His brother has done the martyr thing for a freaking month and it's tired and played to death. At least he recognizes it enough to know he can summon Mary, but Dean has had enough. He pulls over because this conversation is best done stationary.

"You know what, that's it. This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret, that you killed her somehow?" The funny thing is they both have far bigger secrets than Jess. "Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares and calling her name out in the middle of the night—-it's gonna kill you. Now listen to me. **It wasn't your fault.** If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her. Or hell, why don't you take a swing at me? I mean, I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place."

"I don't blame you."

"Well, you shouldn't blame yourself. 'Cause there's nothing you could've done." The moment he says it, he senses the shift in Sam's emotions. He's inadvertently touched on whatever secret Sam's keeping.

"I could've warned her."

"About what? You didn't know what was going to happen." Sam remains uncharacteristically stoic as he stares out the front windshield. And then Dean gets it.

_Sam had known._ Somehow. Dean doesn't say anything out loud because unspoken, unsubstantiated, it's still Sam's secret and they have to take care of Mary somehow.

But they're going to talk about this later. When the bitch is gone and the traumatized girl curled up in their hotel room is safe. The shelve it and drive on, because Hunting doesn't wait for family drama. Dean gleefully shatters the giant, ornate mirror that's caused this whole mess. Problem solved!

Except the bitch _crawls out of the fucking mirror_ instead of dying like she should. Luckily, Dean did some reading and Mary gets caught by her own reflection and he really could have done without seeing her melt into nothing. And because this night has been made of suck, Dean lets Sam off the hook. But just for the night. (Plus, they have a hot chick in their hotel room who needs escorting home. Dean is nothing if not a gentleman.)

But when she's gone it's just Sam and Dean and Jessica's ghost in the car with them. Sam tries to give Dean the brush off, but Dean's not buying that crock of shit. It takes a lot of needling to get Sam to talk. And when he does, Dean almost wishes he hadn't pushed.

Sam can see the future.

"Who's going to win the super bowl?" Dean asks.

Sam gapes, because this is not how he expected Dean to react. He just admitted he'd had dreams of Jess's death weeks before it happened and...what?

"Look, if you don't know, that's fine, I'm not going to kick you out. But if you could sleep on it, twiddle the psychic dials a bit, that would be awesome." Dean grins widely, the look he uses when he's not quite okay with something but he will be given time. Sam's at a complete loss because he just admitted newly developing paranormal powers to his Hunter brother and Dean's just...smiling.

Dean's phone rings. "Tell me who it is?" he asks Sam with a smirk.

"Dude, is that _Wicked_?" This night could not possibly get anymore surreal.

"Shut up, _Sammy_." It's Mer's ringtone and he didn't pick it, though he has to admit that Defying Gravity song? Not bad. Idina Menzel's kind of hot in green, too. "Hello?"

"I don't care what you're in the middle of, Dean Winchester, but unless someone's about to die you best get your ass home as fast as your precious little car can carry you."

Dean winces. "Hello to you too, Whit. Before you ask, I'm fine. A little bloody around the eyes but everything is--"

"Mer hasn't smiled in a week." That stops Dean short because Mer is the smiliest human being he's ever met in his life. "She doesn't have an opinion on anything." She's also the most opinionated. "And she's sulking around the house, clutching that bear you gave her." Oh, Whit's laying the guilt on thick.

"Can I talk to her?"

"No," Whit says viciously.

"C'mon, Whit."

"Nope. You'll have to call home yourself and then we'll see if she wants to pick up the phone."

He pulls the phone away from his face to scowl at it. Whit plays dirty and she knows it. "Fine."

"She brushed Finn off the other day."

"Shit."

"AND John."

"Dammit."

"So when can we expect you?"

Dean shuts the phone without responding; somewhere in Iowa, Whitney Steton is smugly patting herself on the back for a job well done.

"Hey Sammy?" Dean says as nonchalantly as possible. He ignores the muttered "It's Sam." "Wanna go to Iowa?"


	4. Book One: Chapter 4

Dean fidgets uncomfortably in the driver's seat. It's late, most of the houses on the street long dark. Sam is staring out the window at Dean's house, and Dean's acutely aware it's a modest split-level with the paint peeling off in places. One of the windows only has a shutter on the right side, and the whole place just looks sad.

"It's, uh, nothing much," Dean mumbles.

"Dude," Sam says in amazement, "you have a _house_."

Dean shrugs. "Needed somewhere to store my X-box."

Sam's still a little dazed by the fact that _Dean_ has a fucking _house_. He follows Dean up the stairs, trying to reconcile the idea of his brother having a mortgage and a semi-stable job at an auto-body shop with...the idea that is his brother. Dean unlocks the front door—with his _door key_—and flips on the lights.

There's a room off to the right housing what looks like weights and some of Dean's lesser-used hunting equipment. The living room is up a short flight of stairs, a huge TV and the aforementioned Xbox the prime focus of the room. A large, comfortable-looking sofa and chair set takes up the rest of the space. Sam is impressed with Dean's decorating taste; the whole room has a subtle African feel to it. Sam can see the kitchen in front of them, and he assumes the bedrooms are up the small set of stairs to the right.

"Want a beer?" Dean asks, throwing his keys haphazardly on a table.

"Uh, sure." Sam puts his duffle on the ground, conscious of the meticulously neat home. At least that's not surprising about Dean. He follows Dean into the kitchen, and is weirded out to see the amount and types of food in Dean's fridge. There are fresh fruits and vegetables in there, along with what looks like leftovers that aren't take out.

"Dean? Is that you?" Sam spins around, choking a little on his beer. A woman, sleep-rumpled but gorgeous, stands in front of him. She has long mahogany hair, deep brown eyes, richly dark skin and a killer body. She's exactly Dean's type (except for the competent intelligence Sam can feel oozing out of her; Dean's usually not too picky about smarts in his hookups), and Sam figures this must be Mer. She's not what Sam expected at all.

"Hey Whitney. This is Sam. Sam, Whit."

"Whitney?" Sam asks before he can stop himself. Dean realizes he hasn't explained ANYTHING to Sam.

"Oh my God! This is Sam? Why didn't you tell me?" Whitney punches Dean in the shoulder, then wraps Sam up in a giant bear hug. She barely comes up to his sternum. Sam pats her awkwardly on the back while shooting pleading looks Dean's way. The bastard just leaves him to suffer.

"Jesus, I just did, Whit!" Dean whines, rubbing his abused arm. "Abusive bitch."

"I'm ignoring you," Whit informs Dean primly.

"You mean it was always that easy? I should have done that ages ago." Dean moves towards the stairs that lead to the bedrooms, calling "I'll be right back" over his shoulder.

Sam watches him go, until his attention is drawn back to Whitney. "So you're the infamous Sam, huh?"

"Um, yeah, I guess that's me." Whit looks at him expectantly, but Sam has no idea what to say. "So are you and Dean, uh..." Sam waves his hand expressively. Whitney stares at him for a few seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Me and Dean?" For some reason, she finds the idea hilarious. Sam's face scrunches up as she laughs at him, rich and genuine with tears leaking out of her eyes. "S-s-sorry. It's just...yeah, NO. We're roommates of a sort. He, uh. He saved me from this...thing. It got my family. Mom, dad, brother. He couldn't save them but...yeah. This is the house I grew up in, and I couldn't keep it by myself. So Dean helped out and, well, it worked. He and Mer needed a place like this, and I was happy to provide it. They've helped me more than they'll ever know."

"I've heard Dean mention Mer a couple of times, which is why I was surprised when he called you Whitney," Sam admitted with a wry grin. Whit's nose wrinkles in confusion.

"Why would you..." Before Sam can respond, Dean's footsteps echo down the stairs. Sam turns around and stares. Dean is the most unsettled Sam's ever seen, glancing at Sam from beneath his lashes and shifting from foot to foot. He's got his nervous smile on: it's a little too wide and doesn't reach his eyes. A girl steps from behind him, green eyes curious, her hand swallowed by Dean's.

"Sam." Dean's voice comes out a strained croak, and he clears his throat to start again. "Sam. This is Mary. Mer, this is your Uncle Sam."

Sam stares at her. At Dean's daughter. Dean's daughter in Dean's house. She's the spitting image of him, from the green eyes to the full lips. Her hair is dirty-blond and falls in gentle waves to her shoulder, thin and natural in the way little kids are. She's...she's Dean's.

She cocks her head to one side, and Sam feels something brush against him. Not physically, but deep inside, like a sonar probe pinging him to see what kind of sound he makes.

"Nunca Sammy!" He blinks and there's a toddler clinging to his legs. He looks up at Dean for direction, but his brother just watches them with an unreadable expression. Mer tugs on his pant leg, and Sam kneels down to look into her familiar green eyes. She smiles and puts her tiny hands on either side of his head, directly over his temples. He feels the brush again, and a welcoming, happy tingle suffuses him. "I's been waiting soooooooo long!"

****

Sam glances down at the sleeping bundle in his lap. Whitney, after a whispered condemnation at Dean for not warning Sam about having a kid and a roommate, disappears up the stairs into her own room to give them some privacy.

"You have a kid," Sam says stupidly.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, his eyes fixed on Mer. She hasn't let Sam go since she chastised him for making her wait for him.

"You...have a kid."

"I noticed."

"But...how?"

"Well, Sammy, when a man and a woman share a very special hug—" Sam snorts and throws a pillow at Dean—gently so as not to disturb his newest fan.

"Shut up. That's not what I meant. Where's her mother?" Dean scowls and starts pulling the label off his beer.

"She showed up with Mer a few months after you left. I'd broken my leg in a hunt, was cooped up while Dad went off alone. She tracked me down, handed me a one-month-old baby, told me Mer was mine and I could do whatever I wanted with her. She washed her hands of it. Took off, haven't heard from her since. No address or phone number. Didn't even catch her name. And then it was just me and a baby."

"So Dad knows?"

"Of course Dad knows," Dean scoffs. "How do you think Mer's still alive? I spent the first two months freaking out." Sam tries to picture their father acting, well, fatherly with the young girl curled on his lap. He knows, logically, that Dad had done the whole parenting thing with Dean. But to think of Dad actually changing a diaper or mixing formula is...odd. Sam's whole life it's always been Dean.

Sam runs his fingers through Mer's baby-soft hair. Dean watches them with such a soft, open expression it makes Sam's heart squeeze. He's never seen Dean like this before. He's different, and it explains so much of the little things Sam had noticed on the road. How Dean is harder in some ways, softer in others. How he doesn't look at the waitresses with the same intensity, and that whole thing with Lucas.

Sam's torn. He wants to yell at Dean for not telling him about this. For keeping Mer squirreled away in Iowa while Sam went on living his life in ignorance. But they've had this conversation and no. Sam wouldn't have picked up. _Didn't_ pick up. Wouldn't have opened the letters. Would have let his stupid anger and harsh words and self-pity deprive him of four years of his niece's life, and that would have been ten times worse than knowing he'd just never been told.

"You...tried to call," Sam murmurs. One call between freshman and sophomore year. Dean just shrugs.

Sam wants to hug Dean, hear about raising Mer, get to know her, find out what kind of person she is even though she's still so little. Dean wears fatherhood well, and Sam admits to a bit of jealousy. He glances up and catches Dean looking at him intensely, and Sam recognizes that look too. It's the one Dean always gets around Dad after a strenuous but successful hunt, or when he's done something he's proud of and waiting to be acknowledged. Sam has seen that look morph into disappointment and sadness too many times to count, so he swallows his anger—at himself and at Dean for not trying harder—and offers an olive branch.

"So she's four?"

"Yeah," Dean says, and he smiles. "Four years old, and smarter than is good for her. She's _special_." Sam arches an eyebrow at the way Dean emphasizes special. It's thrown too casually into the conversation for.

"What kind of special?" Sam runs through the gamut of 'special' problems covered in his developmental psych class. Not obviously Downs or FAS. No speech impediments or mental processing issues apparent. Dean shifts in his seat, eyes darting away from Sam.

"She doesn't like most people. Says they're too noisy and most of them aren't very nice. Did you feel something when she touched you? Like..."

"Warmth and welcome." The soft feeling of total acceptance and love. Dean looks a little startled, but recovers quickly.

"Yeah. When she started talking she'd say these...things. The she couldn't know or understand. Dad and I took her to a friend of his in Lawrence. Woman named Missouri." Dean took a deep breath. "She says Mer is one of the most powerful psychics she's ever come across." Well that explains Dean's reaction to Sam's revelations. Can't really throw stones when his own daughter's just like Uncle Sam.

"So you're sayin' she's a freak?" Sam jokes, the gentle hand he runs through her hair and the smile on his face taking any sting out of the words.

Dean grins back. "Yep. She's my freak. But dude, watch what you think around her. She knows things."

"Like what?"

"She'll respond to questions you haven't asked—or maybe never planned on asking. Or she'll do things, like bring you a cookie or some aspirin, without you even realizing you're hungry or have a headache." Dean reaches over and rubs Mer's back while Sam absorbs that. It must be tough for her, hearing and knowing so much. "Missouri gave us some runes to help block out the noise from outside."

The first thing Sam noticed was that Dean's house has protective symbols carved into the wall, sanctuary spells etched into the panes of glass, and bundles of guardian herbs disguised as decoration. Sam's willing to bet there are weapons scattered within easy reach in every room. There are probably more hidden protection spells too—under the carpet and in ultraviolet paint. Sam's sure that this house is the supernatural equivalent of Fort Knox.

It suddenly occurs to Sam that Dean's been traveling for well over a month without seeing Mer.

"Why do you do it?" Sam asks softly, loath to break the bubble that surrounds them, but he has to know. "Why do you keep hunting?"

"We have a responsibility."

Sam growls, blindingly angry though he keeps his voice down for Mer's sake. "A responsibility? To what? To Dad and his crusade? Dad's got mom, and I've got Jess but...Mer deserves better than this life."

Dean slams his beer on the coffee table, and Mer whimpers in her sleep, her brow furrowing as their volatile emotions intrude on her dreams. Dean controls himself and brushes his hand against her head in apology.

"He came for her," Dean whispers, his voice strained. "She was so small when I got her. I took her to the doctor, he said she was probably premature. Too eager to get into the world. And then I remembered what happened with you, so I put up every ward I could think of, waited armed to the teeth with Dad to make sure she was safe. The bastard still almost got her. Got through the wards, somehow, and he--" Dean chokes off, too mad to speak because that fucking yellow-eyed son of a bitch had tried to steal his daughter. "So yeah, Sam. I've got a responsibility. Dad's been chasing this thing while you've been off at Stanford enjoying your normal life. This is big, Sam. This demon is powerful, more powerful than anything else we've run across. Something's coming, and it wants my kid. Forgive me if I'm going to do everything in my power to make the world a little bit safer for my little girl."

Sam raises his hands in a placating gesture; he doesn't want to fight with Dean, not tonight and not about this. He can understand his brother's drive and determination, but at what cost to Mer? Dean's crusade to keep her safe isn't going to do much if he never gets to see her; Dean should know, they've lived through this with Dad. The girl in question grumbles in her sleep and begins to shift.

"Bed time," Dean announces. He scoops Mer off Sam's lap, ignoring her sleepy requests for more 'nuncassam.' Sam trails him into Mer's room. It's themed around hunter green, and there's a beautiful mural on one wall that captures Sam's attention. It's a portrait of the whole Winchester family: Sam, Dean, John, and Mary. Sam touches it reverently; he hasn't seen any of his father's artwork in a long time, and rarely outside of the drawings in his journal. The portraits are painted with such care and devotion, particularly Mom's.

"Dad did it. Stayed a whole three weeks to do it right, too," Dean says softly. Sam can feel Dean at his back, warm and solid. Old feelings and emotions come bubbling to the surface as Sam realizes that there's no one holding Dean back. No girlfriend like he thought.

Sam feels stretched thin. His fingers itch with the need to touch. He steps out of Mer's room, letting Dean tuck her in, to regain his bearings. Mer is so much more than the simple girlfriend he imagined, inextricably bound up with Dean.

Dean kisses Mer's brow and leaves her to her dreams, and Sam suddenly feels unbearably awkward. From the way Dean ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck, he feels it too. They've been dancing around this, the big pink elephant in the room that refuses to sit quietly in its corner but prances obnoxiously between them.

"Don't have a guest room," Dean says apologetically. "Gave Whit the master."

Sam shrugs it off. "I can sleep on the couch, no problem."

"Yeah." There's something here, a peak in the ebb and flow of their relationship, where things can change or go right on being the same. Dean's never been good with playing it safe, especially not around Sam. They can feel the hum in the air and Dean's lips part.

"Just give me a blanket and I'm set," Sam blurts out, smiling so hard he can feel his dimples. Dean cocks his head, like he's trying to figure Sam out. Sam keeps his expression brightly blank. Maybe. Maybe, if Dean didn't have a _daughter_ and they hadn't left things the way they had. Christ. Dean's expression shutters and he nods, going to the hall closet.

Dean rummages around and pulls out a blanket and the lumpiest pillow he can find. He doesn't think about his motives, just watches Sam wander off to the den to settle his giant form on a couch Dean can't even nap on comfortably.

****

Sam wakes up to loud laughter and clanking pans. He groans and buries his head under the godawful pillow and muffles his yelp as his back seizes up uncomfortably. The couch is evil. He wonders what Dean would do if he dumped a sack full of salt and kerosene over it.

"Nunca Sam!" He opens his eyes and pulls his head out from under his pillow. Dean's eyes look down at him from a child's face. "D'you want pancakes or wiffles?"

"Um."

"Chose the pancakes," a voice advises, and Mer gets swept from view. "Wiffles are not what you think they are." Sam's eyes travel up and he meets the smiling eyes of Whitney, Mer giggling from her perch on one hip.

"Pancakes?" he suggests. Mer whoops and claps, kicking her heels into Whit's sides.

"Pancakes, pancakes! Hi ho, Silver!" Whit rolls her eyes and sashays into the kitchen.

"I'm not your beast of burden, little missy!" she tells Mer. "That's what your father's for." Sam rolls off the couch, his spine cracking all the way up. He yawns and stumbles into the kitchen where a stack of buttery-gold pancakes disappear into a warm oven and bacon sizzles on a skillet. Mer carries an almost-full quart of milk to the table, lips pressed together in concentration. It's all very...domestic.

Sam stretches and his back twinges. Fuck that hurts.

"Nunca Sam thought a bad word!" Mer yells gleefully, hopping off the chair she used to reach the table. Sam freezes and thinks, "Oh, shit!" "AND ANOTHER ONE!" Mer cackles gleefully. She flips onto her back and kicks her legs into the air as she laughs.

"Mer," Whit warns. "What have we said about people's private thoughts?"

"But they're _right there!_" Mer whines, sitting up and fixing her with the saddest puppy dog eyes imaginable, wet and contrite. "I didn't _mean_ to!"

"Apologize," Whit instructs, voice stern. Mer pouts, just like Dean, lower lip pushed out and face set into a line that screams 'na-na na-na you can't make me I don't wanna.' "Mer!" Whit's got the warning tone Sam's heard from countless mothers down to an art.

Mer scuffs the ground with a toe, head down and arms crossed over her chest, and mutters, "Sorry," so disgruntled and surly that Sam has to smile. Whitney sighs and lets it drop, apparently clued in that that particular tone is Winchester for 'that's the best you'll get, take it or leave it.' It makes something in his chest pull, because she's _been_ here. She knows Mer, helped raised her. And by extension knows a part of Dean that Sam has only just realized exists.

The kitchen goes quiet, and Sam realizes Mer's looking at him, a little affronted, and Whit glances at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Um..." he says eloquently, glancing between the two of him. He scowls when Whit rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Mer looks increasingly disgruntled.

"Uncassam," she says, supremely annoyed.

"Yeah?" he ventures.

"I _said_ I's sorry." That's definitely a snort from Whitney's general vicinity.

"Um. Okay?" Mer huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Unca**SAM**!"

"What?"

"You're supposed to say 'It's okay' or 'I forgive you!'" Oh. OH. This time, when Whit chokes on her laugh, Sam finds himself joining in. Mer's expression darkens at his perceived slight, so he turns it into a cough.

"Y-yeah," he manages, trying to keep the smile off his face. "It's okay. Don't do it again." Mer isn't mollified at all, but she graciously nods her head in acknowledgment before flouncing off up the stairs, presumably to wake her father.

"You dodged a bullet there," Whit tells him with a grin.

****

Sam finds himself fascinated with Dean's house and the things in it. It feels homey and lived-in like none of the homes and motel rooms they rented when they were younger. This is a real home with history and life, dents in the wall and scuff marks on the floor.

Sam scrutinizes the various photographs that punctuate the interior landscape. There are a lot of Mer, but there are a few of Whit and Dean scattered in there. There's one that Sam stares at extra hard: Dean asleep on the couch with a tiny, swaddled baby asleep on his chest, one hand spanning the entire length of her body protectively. Sam touches it reverently, finger sliding over the clear glass.

His feet take him into Mer's room. Her bedspread is bright and cheerful. There's a huge stack of toys in the corner, almost as if Dean's making up for all the stuff they could never have. But the thing that draws Sam's attention is a large cork-board on one wall.

It's filled with polaroid pictures. There's Dean, Whit, the house, the Impala, a stuffed bear, Dean and Whit goofing off in the kitchen, a young child with sandy hair and clear blue eyes. Sam squints and makes out 'Finn' in scrawled, childish writing.

There's an empty space that seems out of place though. Sam touches it, trying to figure out what went there. There's no tack-hole; nothing had been there and then removed. Sam flashes back to what Mer had said when he arrived and it's suddenly hard to breathe.

_"I's been waiting soooooooo long!"_

That space is for him.

****

Sam settles into the household with such ease it's almost like they've been waiting for him. Mer is an endless force of amusement and wit. Sam's shocked by her vocabulary and ability to express herself; she's the most verbose four-year-old he's ever come across. Dean blames Sam for that. Mer's psychic, Sam's a geek, and that explains the increase in obnoxiously large words that Dean swears up and down she hadn't used before Sam came home.

Sam feels a little weirded out by that, because while he's happy to make sure Dean's kid knows 'twinkie' and 'breakfast' aren't really synonyms, he'd like his thoughts to be private. But when Dean figures out Sam's damage he a) mocks him and b) explains that Mer's four. She can't _understand_ most of his private thoughts because she has no basis of knowledge for most of those things and she's _four_. Unformed brain, different way of thinking all together. At least according to Missouri.

Dean trusts this Missouri person a lot, because most of what he says about Mer's abilities start with 'Missouri said...' Like, "Missouri says words and language are fairly superficial thoughts, unlike memories and emotions which are buried deeper and more private. The first thing we need to impart is respect for the sanctity of another's inner thoughts. Most likely Mer won't be able to help some of the things she knows, but she can make an effort, and good habits start early." Sam wonders if that's true, or if Mer will just learn to stop telling them when she picks up on things because it gets her in trouble.

Except Dean and Whit (and now Sam) don't exactly punish Mer in the traditional sense. They just make it very, very apparent they're disappointed in her behavior. From what Sam can tell, it works far more effectively than a spanking or other forms of punishment would, because Mer slinks around and looks teary-eyed for days after she gets reprimanded.

To Sam's surprise, with a little concentration and practice, he finds that he can sense when Mer's mind brushes against his, and sometimes divine intent. He can tell when she's just checking in, seeking reassurance that he's there and okay, or when she's upset about something and seeking him out for a mental hug, just like she would if they were physically with her. When he and Dean go out, he sometimes feels a tug back towards Iowa, a subtle 'I miss you' or 'hurry home.'

It's _very_ interesting when Sam realizes there are two people pinging his consciousness. He leaves Dean napping at home and is out getting groceries with Mer when he feels a checking-up/where are you brush against his mind. Which is odd because she's right there in the store with him, pushing her own tiny shopping cart filled with drinks: cranberry juice, chocolate milk, regular milk, orange juice, lemonade mix, and various tea bags—Mer has this weird fixations on liquids. If she doesn't have a wide selection of beverage choices, she gets cranky. And she'll drink them all, too.

Oddly enough, the only soda she'll drink is called Cheerwine, a Southern cherry soft drink that isn't actually sold anywhere in Iowa except in one place: an old gas station owner named Eaton has worked something out with the distribution companies and carries it in his store. Once a month they head to see Eaton all the way on the other side of town. He gives Mer a free can every time they go in to buy a flat because he feels like it's Southernizing her, and anyone who likes Cheerwine that much is good people.

"Hey, Mer?" Sam calls. She glances up from her intense study of two different brands of chai tea concentrate. "I'm right here."

"Um, yeah," Mer says, the 'duh' unspoken at the end. Sam's struck again with how unbelievably _Dean's_ she is.

"You just, uh..." Sam frowns and pushes what he felt to the forefront of his head, tentatively projecting it towards her. He's not even sure if it'll work. She looks confused for a moment before her expression clears in understanding.

"Oh, that was Dada." She has this funny way of saying the word, almost like she's British or finished up a magic trick with 'Dah-Dah!' "He doesn't like waking up alone. House's too quiet." She goes back to her task while Sam quietly reels.

That explains _so much._ So many things he's overlooked or chalked up to Dean taking his protector role too seriously. And why Dean had known to come back to the house the night Jess died. Little things that happened on hunts, secrets Dean's guessed or acted like he always knew. They're an entire family of freaks.

Sam's determined to confront Dean about his well-kept little secret, only he never quite manages. Dean always has something pressing to talk to him about whenever Sam tries to bring it up.

So Sam lets Dean have his distractions, and files The Conversation away for another day, when Dean least expects it and can't run away.

****

A couple of weeks into his new life Mer gives him a present. She looks so pleased with herself he's almost scared to open it, afraid his reaction won't live up to her expectations. But with a little prodding, he carefully pulls the shiny gift paper away from the tape, careful not to rip it too badly.

He stares down at a Polaroid camera.

"Sos you can carry us with you all the time," Mer tells him seriously. Sam grins and hugs her, picking her up off her feet and swinging her around. She laughs and clings to him as the world blurs past.

----

The first person Sam stalks for a picture is Dean. Dean is notorious about avoiding cameras, so it takes a lot of stealth and planning on Sam's part. He enlists Whit and Mer to help, charges them with distracting Dean. It helps that Dean doesn't know about Sam's new camera.

Even with their carefully coordinates sneak attack Sam only manages to get about three-fourths of Dean's face in the shot, lips just curling into a smile as Mer expounds on what happened at daycare. Dean glares and Sam and calls him all the names he can—without swearing. It's really funny, and Sam uses Whit's amusement to snap a picture of her. She looks beautiful in the soft lighting.

After that, Mer and Sam go on a picture-taking rampage. Sam has photographs of everything from the furniture in the living room to the Impala parked in front of the house. Mer steals Whit's sunglasses and puts them on, vamping like a celebrity, and Sam immortalizes it in Polaroid form. She's got Dean's smirk AND his attitude, which is a deadly combination.

Sam ends up with a towering pile of photos and under Mer's direction labels them all. He's totally unsurprised to discover they've all been relabeled by the next morning, Mer's rounded handwriting just as distinctive as Dean's more controlled scrawl.

Sam just grins and stuffs his favorites in his wallet.

****

Whit's a fluctuating presence in their life. She's quick to hand Mer off to Sam, taking longer shifts at the hospital and going out on dates. Sam doesn't know how to take Dean's utter bewilderment every time she appears in a dress, then bids them goodbye and disappears, leaving the three of them alone. The first couple of times it's awkward, Dean and Sam retreating to different parts of the house while Mer drifts between the two of them, gaze piercing and considering in a decidedly not-four-years-old kind of way. Sam has no idea how to decipher it, or what's going on in her head. Dean, it would seem, has had more practice ignoring his young daughter's eccentricities.

One day, Sam catches her in deep conversation with Dean, who looks panicky and pale, shaking his head in vehement denial at whatever she's trying to convey. He runs away—literally, jams his feet into his sneakers and bolts out the door—when Sam appears in the room. Mer turns and looks at him in that same inscrutable way and says, "You're both _ridiculous_."

Sam gapes and stands there like the ridiculous idiot Mer says he is. Do four-year-olds have that kind of attitude? Mer sighs and slides out of the chair, wandering off to watch _Arrested Development_. Sam always avoids her when she's watching that show because she gets all the jokes. It wigs him out.

----

"Are you serious?" Sam asks, jaw dropped. Dean glares at him and stuffs his face full of potato chips. "No, really, Dean. She's never been to a fun park?"

Dean shrugs and glances towards where Mer watches TV and draws in the notebook no one's allowed to see, not even Dean.

"She's doing alright."

"She has no socialization with kids her age!" Sam protests. "You don't want her to be that home schooled kid who everyone thinks is weird. Dean! She thinks _Arrested Development_ is funny!" Dean shrugs.

"I'm told it's smart humor."

"That's the problem!" Sam protests. Dean rolls his eyes.

"She doesn't like crowds, and we have neighborhood kids, Sam. They get together a couple times a week in the park down the street. And she has this friend named Finn who's at camp right now."

"Dean, I know our childhood was fucked up, but you have a chance to give her normal," Sam argues earnestly. He can't properly interpret the look Dean gives him, but it makes Sam feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"And what would you consider 'normal,' Sammy?"

Sam decides to start Mer's 'normalization' with a trip to the local Chuck-E-Cheese. Skiball, go carts, laser tag, what's not to love? Dean's nervous and constantly checking on Mer. She rolls her eyes but bears her father's concerns, and starts pestering Sam with questions about the games and things at the fun house. Dean starts expounding on the wonder of tickets, and Sam can tell he's just as eager to get there as Mer, thinking about the Whack-a-Mole and all the prizes he'll win.

They're just walking in, Mer holding on to each of their hands, a happy knot of belonging singing in Sam's chest when she freezes at the threshold, eyes huge. Dean frowns and tugs her forward, but Mer digs her heels in and shakes her head, fear rolling off her. Dean drops to one knee, sheltering Mer and scanning for trouble.

"What's wrong, baby girl?" he asks softly, but Sam can see the outline of the knife at his back, vicious and curved. A child goes screaming by and Dean tenses. Mer looks like she's about to cry, little body trembling, and Sam's acutely aware of his own knife, strapped to his ankle.

"I wanna go home," Mer whispers, taking a step back. Her gaze darts from person to person like she's looking for someone. "It's wrong." Dean nods and sweeps her up in his arms without another word. Sam flanks them protectively, glaring at anyone who looks at them too long. They're tense until they get home, Mer curled in Sam's lap all the way.

She retreats to her room the moment they get in. Dean stares at the steps leading up to the rooms, jaw tense and eyes hard. He lasts five minutes before going up after her, the door to her room clicking softly as they sequester themselves, father and daughter.

Sam flicks through the channels downstairs, waiting for Dean to tell him what happened. There's nothing good on and he feels restless and superfluous.

Sam's half asleep when Dean stalks into the room, anger radiating from him. He snatches up the cordless phone and goes outside so he can pace as he talks. His phone call takes two minutes, and when he's done he cracks the plastic casing slamming it into the cradle.

Dean locks himself in his room and doesn't come out until morning, but by then Sam doesn't need to know what Mer saw.

On the front page of the paper is a headline: Pedophile Arrested at Local Children's Hot Spot.

Sam doesn't suggest any more trips.


	5. Book One: Chapter 5

They're a couple months into playing house when Sam gets an e-mail from an old Stanford friend asking for help. Dean's shocked that Sam's keeping up with them, much less dragging him off to God knows where to help some chick who better be hot. (She is.)

The skinwalker? Uber creepy. When it sheds? Uber gross. Dean has a feeling that this is all going to go horribly wrong, but he can't leave Sam's friend out to dry.

Mer saves Sam's life. Well, kind of. He knows something's off with Dean when they reunite. He's acting weird and he feels...wrong. Like an echo, if he had to describe it. Mer calls as they're climbing into the Impala and Sam fights his incredulous expression when Dean hands him the phone with barely two sentences between him and his daughter. As much as Sam is becoming part of the family framework, Dean and Mer are very close, and they take their phone time seriously.

"She wants to talk to you," the shapeshifter says. Sam manages a smile as he accepts the phone, his heart pounding.

"Hey Mer-bear," he greets.

"That's a bad man and Daddy's hurt," she whispers, as if the shapeshifter can hear her. Spots dance across his vision and Sam makes himself calm down; he can't help Dean in the midst of a panic attack.

"I know, Mer. We'll be home soon, safe and sound." Silence on the other end. "I promise." Sam tries to project whatever assurances he can, but inside he's knotted up. Mer sniffs on the other end and packs as much bravery into her tone as she can.

"Okay. I'll see you soon." Her voice is so small, trembling with the attempt to be brave. Sam's heart breaks a little and rage against the skinwalker consumes him. No one makes his girl sound like that. No one.

The bastard's a tough cookie to break; it's tough for Sam too, because he's whaling on his brother's face. And the fucker, who got a heavy dose of Dean's memories along with his DNA, is spouting off.

"Where is he?" Sam asks. His face is set in a hard line, no chinks in his armor.

"Who knows? Could be anywhere. But man. He's sure got issues with you," the shapeshifter taunts. "You got to go to college. He had to stay home. I mean, _I_ had to stay home, with Dad. You don't think I had dreams of my own? But Dad needed me. And then I had a kid to raise, all by myself. Where the hell were you?"

Sam ignored the jibes, ignores the guilt that wells up in him when the thing wearing Dean's face hits a little too close to home. "Where is my brother?"

"I'm your brother! See... deep down, I'm just jealous. You've got friends. You've got a life. Me? I know I'm a freak. And sooner or later, everyone's gonna leave me. Even Mer." Sam wonders if that's true, if Dean really thinks that. He curses himself for letting the thing crawl into their space, for letting it manipulate him so easily. "You left. Hell, I did everything Dad asked me to and he ditched me too. No explanation, no nothing, just poof! Left me with a whiney kid and your sorry ass. But still, this life, it's not without its perks. I mean, I meet the nicest people! Like little Becky. You know... Dean would bang her if he had the chance."

Sam keeps his face impassive, but inside he's seething because yeah. He does know. He's seen the looks Dean shoots Becky's way. Heard the innuendos. They're away from home, away from Mer, and Dean is allowed to do what he wants. Probably the only time he can do what he wants, because when he's home he's either soaking up time with Mer or working to support her. Serious, paying-taxes kind of work. Becky'll probably take Dean up on his offer, too, because they always do. That sounds petty and jealous in his head; he can only imagine what it would sound like if he said it aloud.

But that kind of thinking isn't helping him find Dean, and the shapeshifter isn't giving anything up. So Sam lets him go. Well, he doesn't _let_ him go as much as encourage escape in a very subtle way. Though getting himself kidnapped? Well that wasn't quite what he had in mind. But hey, he found Dean! And they immediately get separated. Again.

Sam ends the night tied up on Becky's floor, skinwalker-Dean telling him he should _appreciate_ his brother more.

Well, Sam _appreciates_ his brother just fine and the resulting fistfight is kind of awesome in that Sam doesn't hold back. At all.

And Dean Winchester is officially dead now. Which is kind of a relief—no more warrants, APBs, law enforcement agencies looking for him—and kind of scary. Hopefully no one realizes this Dean Winchester is the same Dean Winchester in Saybrook, Iowa, with a kid named Mary. Dean and Sam spent their formative years dodging child protective services. Mer deserves better than that.

But now Zack's free and Becky knows the truth about Sam and his family. She'll run interference with their friends which will work for a little while. Amazingly, Dean doesn't take Becky up on her tacit offer to stay a little longer and get patched up, instead heading to the Impala with nary a backwards glance. They stop at a truck stop to patch themselves up; one of the perks of having a nurse at home is free medical care, as if they needed another excuse to get home quick.

They don't talk to each other. It's a weird kind of agreement, because it's not exactly an uncomfortable tension between them, but there are definitely things that need to be said. Something to be worked out. Sam, for his part, is a bundle of relief, consternation, confusion and all other kinds of words and emotions that he doesn't have the energy to sort out right now. His eye is almost swollen shut, for starters, and his knuckles hurt like a bitch. So he lets himself drift, staring out at the passing countryside and trying not to think.

"Sorry, man," Dean says twenty miles out of town. Sam starts out of his fugue and glances at Dean.

"About what?"

Dean gets a wistful look on his face, the kind of look that means he's being sincere. "I really wish things could be different, y'know? I really wish you could just be Joe College."

Sam thinks about it, because Dean means it. Dean would give up everything for Sam because he loves his younger brother—even if everything meant he had to give up Sam himself. He's giving Sam an out, permission, of a kind, to go back to the life he left. Vacation into Hunting over, law school awaits.

"Nah, that's okay. Truth is, even at Stanford, deep down I never really fit in." It's the first time he's admitted that, out loud or to himself. Dean's smile is worth it.

"Well, that's 'cause you're a freak."

Sam smirks, "Yeah, thanks."

"Well, I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you all the way." It's as close to a confession Dean's going to give regarding his own abilities. But Mer's already told Sam what Dean can do, so he's not worried. And he's pretty sure Dean knows Mer spilled the beans.

"Yeah, I know you are," Sam murmurs. He stares out the window, the Impala rumbling as she eats up the miles towards Iowa. He's tired, so he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

Sleep has other ideas, hanging around at the periphery of his mind and laughing as his brain whirls around in dizzying circles.

All of the accusations and near-confessions from skinwalker-Dean race through his head. He can't turn them off. Especially the part about Becky, which is stuck on repeat. Images of Dean fucking her, touching her, torment him. He shifts towards the window so he can stare out at the darkening sky without Dean knowing.

As his thoughts chase one another, spiraling darker and darker into the 'what if' trap his mind has laid out for him, Sam realizes he really is in danger of becoming that sketchy emo kid Dean has always accused him of being. But he can't forget how they ended—or didn't end—without a word between them, without ever addressing what they were. He'd thought they might have been insoluble, but he'd been proven wrong. Four years of wrong.

Sam yelps as the car is jerked over to the side of the road and he bangs his head against the window. Dean sprints around the car and yanks Sam out of his seat before he can process what's happening.

"Dean what—" Dean slams Sam against the Impala.

"Seriously, your emo bullshit is giving me a headache, so if you can tone down the brooding that would be _fantastic_."

Sam growls and sends his brother stumbling back from him. "Get off me, Dean." Dean glares at him and straightens his coat. They hover there, scowling at one another. Dean's gaze shifts to some point over Sam's shoulder, his jaw clenched.

"'M not leaving," Dean mutters, hunching over in on himself.

"What?" Sam asks suspiciously. Dean sighs and rolls his head from side to side. Sam smirks because Dean gearing up for a talk is exactly like Dean gearing up for a fight.

"I am not leaving," he says clearly, each word forced out. "This is it. Just, y'know. You and me and Mer and maybe Whit if she stops being such a bitch. Whatever happened....in the past. It's fine. Everything is. Fine. Okay?"

Sam has to duck his head until the blush leaves his cheeks. Dean loves Whit. They snipe at each other all the time, call one another the worst names Sam's ever heard (when Mer's not around), and, maybe because Dean's never tried to fuck her, are actually friends.

"Can we get back on the road now?" Dean asks plaintively.

"Sure," Sam says, stepping up to Dean, who finally looks at him, expression wary. Sam cups the back of Dean's neck and presses their foreheads together. Dean freezes, holds his breath, and Sam pushes all of his emotions, everything he feels and knows about Dean, towards his brother. He has no idea what Dean's getting from him or how his whole deal works, but when he sighs and relaxes into Sam's gesture, it's enough. Message received.

Me, too.

----

"You look like shit." Sam looks up through his swollen eye. Whit is a blurry vision in hospital green and smells like antiseptic, but her hands are gentle as she tends to his wounds and she has the good drugs. Perks of her job that they don't talk about or overtly acknowledge. She'd patched up Dean an hour ago and sent him off to sit with Mer, who has a cold and feels pretty miserable. Sam doesn't envy Dean that job at all.

"Give me your arm." Sam obediently does so, wincing as the stretch of muscles pull at the wound, haphazardly bound by gauze. He'd cut it pretty bad on a piece of glass during one of the fights with the skinwalker. The gauze hurts when it pulls away from the scab, and Whit mutters something about goddamned stubborn bastards while she dabs at the blood. Whit's stitches are much neater than Dean's; hell, Sam might not even scar badly.

"Thanks," he mumbles, feeling a heavy lassitude settle into his limbs.

"I think of it as practice. Makes my life interesting," Whit says dryly. She tilts his head back and smears something cold and smelly over the bruises on his cheek and jaw. She prods his eye and Sam jerks away, trying to glare at her. "I'll get you a cold compress for that eye."

She does one better, bringing him a bag of peas and a scotch. Bless her.

"Thank you, my child," Whit laughs. "I need as many blessings as I can get!" Whit snags a beer out of the fridge and sits down across from Sam, idly packing the supplies away. Something about mixing alcohol and medication flits through Sam's brain, but Whit is a nurse. She knows about these things, and the Scotch is a pretty golden color.

"What was it like?" Sam asks before he can really think about what he's saying. Right now, he's thinking about this little family they've made. While Mer has taken to him like a duck to water, and Dean's made him feel welcome in his home, he hasn't quite figured out where he fits in his own head. For some reason, tonight he's decided that Whit is the person to ask. Because she's nice. Even though Dean says she's not, which is a lie because Whit had made him pancakes his first day here. Mean people don't make pancakes.

"You're good people," Sam slurs, "no matter what Dean says." Whit laughs and takes his pulse.

"Those pain pills hitting then?" Whit asks him. Sam frowns and the world feels woozy, warm and soft.

"Why're you here?" Sam asks her curiously.

"Well. There's not really any other place I'd rather be at the moment." Sam nods enthusiastically. He gets that. Mer and Dean are here, after all. Sam frowns, because he thinks his mouth has been moving without his permission. He sure of it when Whit says, "Yeah. They are. Let's get you to bed, Sambo."

"My name is _Sam_."

"Oh, really? I'd never have known," Whit deadpans.

"You're..." Sam gets distracted by the floor light in the corner. It is really very pretty. He wants to touch the colors, wrap them around his hand and never let them go. The light feels happy and tastes like effervescent rainbows.

"Oh wow. No more drugs for the psychic people," Whit mutters to herself, watching Sam flail about to 'catch the light beams.' She bypasses the couch and tucks Sam into Dean's bed—because no way is he sleeping on that tiny little piece of furniture. He looks young, all beat up with his shaggy hair falling in his eyes and a guileless look on his face. He blinks sleepily at her, then wraps himself around Dean's pillow and falls asleep between one breath and the next.

Ah, fuck. There she goes, falling for another Winchester. As if two of 'em weren't handful enough.


	6. Book One: Chapter 6

Life goes on in the aftermath of the skinwalker. Mer gets over her cold and bounces around the house like a Tasmanian devil, so much energy it takes the three of them combined to keep her busy. Whit casually comments on the quality of the light in the house until Sam's so red it can't be healthy, then laughs at him until she cries. By mutual agreement, Sam and Dean decide to slide back into hunting with an easy case. Which, naturally, turns out to be not so easy.

The whole Hookman incident sends Dean into a rant about how Mer's never leaving home. Ever. She's also never going to grow up or like boys or think about sex. Sam tries to keep his smile internal in order to keep all his body parts intact because there is not a doubt in his mind that Dean's completely serious about everything he says.

Sam also avoids mentioning that Dean's 'plan' to keep Mer safe is the fastest way to recreating the Hookman fiasco he can imagine. Again, he likes his bits and pieces so he keeps his mouth shut and buys Dean a couple of Hostess cupcakes as solace.

They've got bruises over their bruises, new cuts and abrasions over the old ones, which means they're both in for a good scolding by Whit. Still, when the case is over, they're excited to get home.

----

Mer's sitting on the front steps waiting for them when they pull up, face drawn in misery, Whitney rubbing her back in soothing circles. Dean curses and scoops her up despite how his body protests. He carries Mer inside, Sam and Whit trailing after them.

Surprisingly, the expected scolding doesn't come. Whit just cleans their cuts and checks them for concussion. She doesn't bandage them up, which seems weird to Sam, but he doesn't want to ask. The atmosphere around them is somber and thick, and no one raises their voices above a low murmur.

Mer has decided she doesn't like the ground, so Sam and Dean juggle her as they get ready for bed, Mer refusing to let go unless the other is there to grab her. Whit disappears and then comes back with hot mugs of tea that warm them up from the inside out. Dean's so tired he actually smiles in thanks, a real smile that lacks the taunting edge most of Whit and Dean's interactions have.

When Sam moves towards the couch, Mer yells, leaning away from Dean and reaching for Sam. Dean frowns and tries to pass her to Sam, but that's not what she wants. She hooks one arm around Dean's neck and the other around Sam's and holds on. Sam's got no choice but to half-carry her into Dean's room and lay stiffly beside them in bed.

Once she exhorts a promise from Sam that he won't leave, she turns to Dean with soulful eyes, and Dean strips off his shirt without a word. Mer touches every one of his bruises with solemn reverence, mapping the signs of violence spread over her father's chest. It's a ritual Dean submits to without any trace of the snark or condescension he'd deliver upon anyone else. There is something very grave about the way Mer checks him over, lips pressed together in concentration.

Sam's surprised when she turns to him with the same look. She doesn't move towards him, as if she's unsure if he'll participate in this tradition. He glances at Dean, who shrugs but watches both of them carefully. Sam slips out of his shirt.

He sucks in a breath at the first touch. The bruise on his shoulder turns to ice when she touches him, then tingles oddly. He's prepared for the next one, but it still feels really weird. Like she rubbed icy hot on him, but the sensation is concentrated and more intense. She's half way through when her eyes start to droop. She keeps them open by sheer determination alone.

"Hey, baby girl, it's alright, he's better now," Dean coaxes and tries to pull her away. Sam frowns, trying to figure out what's going on. Mer shakes her head and persists, laying her hand on a particularly vicious bruise on Sam's hip that she has no way of knowing is there unless she has x-ray vision and can see through flannel sleep-pants. "Mer."

"No." Clipped and short, she sounds just like her grandfather. Dean sighs and lets her finish; she'll fall asleep before too long, and he's not up for a fight tonight. Mer makes it almost all the way through healing Sam before her body sags and she crumples into an exhausted ball of sleepy girl. Sam helps Dean maneuver her under the covers and realizes his shoulder doesn't hurt quite as much as it should.

"Dean?" Sam asks, though the confirmation is purely ceremonial at this point.

"She can heal small wounds," he confirms, brushing his hand over Mer's head. "And alleviate some of the pain. It takes a lot out of her."

Sam stares at his niece. Dean's kid. Mer constantly surprises him, and he has a sneaking suspicion that she constantly surprises Dean too.

"She's amazing," he murmurs.

"Yeah," Dean says, sounding choked. "She really is."

---

Mer sticks unusually close to Sam after she heals him the first time. He doesn't really know what to make of it. Dean suffers Sam's litany of 'whys' with gritted teeth and new ways to insinuate Sam's a girl, before he finally snaps.

"I don't _know_, Sam. She's never healed anyone else before, not even Whit." Dean rolls his eyes as Sam's face squinches in preparation for a lecture. "Jesus Nancy Drew, can you drop the 20 questions bit and just go with it? You're such a giant girl!"

"Whas wrong with being a girl?" Sam chokes on his water. Neither of them had heard Mer come in, and she's standing in the doorway, arms crossed and expression thunderous. Dean swallows and looks panicked.

"Yeah, Dean. What's wrong with being a girl?" Sam grins, wide and mocking.

"Nothing, sweetheart," Dean says. "Being a girl is awesome." His smile is nervous around the edges. Mer is not appeased.

"You keep saying like it's bad to uncassam." Mer's chin starts wobbling and her eyes look suspiciously wet. And now Dean really is panicking, because he hates it when Mer cries. More than anything in the world, including airplanes. "D'you wish I was a boy?" It's so pathetic and _planned_ that Sam can't believe Dean falls for it. Dean assures Mer that she's perfect as she is, and boys are stupid, and he's so, so sorry. He gathers her up in his arms when she sniffs, loud and piteous.

Mer smirks at Sam over Dean's shoulder and Sam shakes his head. Kid's going to be trouble when she grows up. He grins.

He's so going to be there when it happens.

****

They go to check out a case in Oklahoma. A guy died of, reportedly, Mad Cow Disease, but Sam doesn't buy it and neither does Dean. They hop in the Impala and head out, Mer and Whit watching them go. Whit's displeasure follows them all the way to Oklahoma.

"You get used to it," is Dean's only advice, and Sam realizes that their little house in Iowa really has become home. Sam wonders how Dad feels about it, but then they're off to development hell where 'Uncle Dusty' died.

For .00001 of a second, after the realtor assumes they're a gay couple, Sam imagines buying a house with Dean and Mer like the ones in Oasis Planes. Their version of the white picket fence. It can be just the three of them, where no one knows them or knows he and Dean are brothers. (Except for Whit, who has incongruously moved in next door in his dream-world.)

"Growing up in a place like this would freak me out," Dean gripes. See dream. See dream grow. Grow dream, grow. See Dean shatter dream.

"Why?" Though it doesn't matter; it was always a pipe dream anyways.

"The manicured lawns, 'How was your day, honey?' I'd blow my brains out." Sam doesn't mention that whenever Dean's been away at the body shop he always asks Mer how her day's been.

"There's nothing wrong with normal," Sam says mildly, tamping down his disappointment. He doesn't mention anything about Mer maybe deserving normal. Dean doesn't like to think about school and Mer growing up and things changing. They're good like they are now, and Dean's fine with that.

"I'd take our family over normal any day," Dean tells him. Sam lets it go because yeah. An empath, a psychic healer, and whatever Sam's got going on? They're not exactly normal. Plus, Iowa's pretty convenient for the work they do, and Whitney's kind of grown on him.

But still, these houses in Oasis Plains? Very nice. Especially the shower, which Dean hogs and hogs and hogs and Sam needs a crowbar to pry him out. He doesn't ask what Dean's been doing in there the whole time, but he comes out relaxed and easy.

----

If only it hadn't rained. Dean hates the rain. He glares at it with malevolence usually reserved for things that go dead in the night and it's all downhill after that. Dean's pissy and withdrawn the rest of the hunt.

They snipe at each other about everything. Dad, how they were raised, how Dean's raising Mer—"We're both raising her, jackass." "But YOU'RE her father, Dean!"—the eternal debate about how Dean supplements his income, college, loyalty to family. Whether they should be hunting so much in the first place. Everything Sam says sends Dean spiraling into a sulk.

Sam manages not to punch Dean when he starts taking potshots and Sam's decision to go to college. They'll have to deal with it eventually, but not today. Not right now. (And no matter what Dean says, bow hunting is _not_ an important lifeskill. Nor was Dad the caring, doting father Dean makes him out to be.)

But then they have a genuine Native American curse to deal with and people who need saving. Their family issues have never gotten in the way of saving lives. The developer's family issues, however, mean they're stuck on cursed land with swarms of insects out for their blood for the next twelve hours or so. _Awesome_.

They pack towels and tape over all the cracks they can find, but Sam could have told them it was futile. There's no way they can make an entire house air-tight. It's just not possible. He can hear the hum of a million insects getting louder and louder. Dean backs up, eyes darting around, trying to figure out how the hell they're going to get out of this one.

Dean gasps and doubles over, clutching his head.

"Dean!" Sam yells, keeping a wary eye on the fireplace. He can hear groaning metal and the sound of millions of bugs in the flue. "Dean!"

"Mer," Dean gasps. "She's scared." Seconds later panic and fear and anger sledgehammer into Sam's psyche. His eyes water and his head hurts.

"Shit." Mer is REALLY scared. And mad.

"Yeah," Dean murmurs weakly. Sam sends Mer a "we're okay/need to concentrate" message and she recedes a little. Enough that they can sprint up the stairs and hide in the attic. It buys them a couple of hours, until the bugs start eating through the roof. They try to ward them off with aerosol cans and patches of plywood, but there are too many of them and sunrise is too far off. The wood of the roof crumbles, then falls, and insects pour into the space.

The swarm heads straight for them when they just...stop. The bees buzz angrily around them, unfold like a blanket, and they're suddenly thrown into darkness.

"What's going on?" Matt, Sam's newest groupie, asks. It's like the insects are trapped against a shield, hurling their bodies at an invisible barrier.

"I have no idea," Dean replies. Sam reaches towards the barrier and gasps, yanking his hand away.

"Mer," Sam breathes.

"WHAT?" Dean demands. Instead of reaching out physically, Dean closes his eyes and Sam feels the familiar mental brush that is his brother. He copies Dean, skates along the edges of his consciousness and yes—it's Mer surrounding them, keeping the bees at bay, furious and protective.

There's something else, too, beyond Mer's shield. Something sinister and ancient that wants them all dead, pressing against the barrier of love and righteous anger surrounding them. Mer is having none of that, no one's going to hurt her family. She throws the equivalent of a mental tantrum. She hurls loud psychic shrieks of displeasure outwards and wages war for them in a way no child should be able to.

Sam concentrates on her and learns to emulate what she's doing. He layers his own energy underneath hers, bolsters the places she's forgotten about, like the floor beneath their feet. He throws his own mental bombs into the fray, smirks as clusters of insects scatter under the assault or fall twitching to the ground. He learns from her how to wield his power, and then shows her how to strategize.

Dean slides up behind him and wraps his arms around Sam's waist, and suddenly Sam's more powerful than he was before. Sam unlocks Dean, channels his brother's energy through himself. Dean's lifeforce burns bright green-gold and doesn't so much destroy the bees as send them skittering far, far away. It expands through the house, into the yard around it, and there's not a single bug in the entire field. Mer murmurs her approval, brushes against them both just to make sure they're okay. Sam sends soft pulses of love and assurance back to her and he swears he can feel the warmth of her smile on his skin.

She recedes softly from them, powerful in her anger but fading fast. Sam has a brief flash of Mer grown up, standing before a group of people, older and completely self-assured and very, very hard. His chest aches for the woman he sees there. Then it's gone, the sun comes up and it's all over.

Sam starts returning to himself, fitting all the pieces of his mind back together. Dean manages a soft, tired smile as they detangle from one another. During the long hours of the night they'd changed and shifted until they pressed close together, Sam's head thrown back on Dean's shoulder, Dean's arms banded around Sam's chest.

Matt looks at them suspiciously because he _had_ believed they were brothers. Matt's dad looks shaken, hand clutching his wife's.

"What...what was that?" Matt asks. Sam and Dean share a look; Dean has just about as much of a clue as Sam.

"Never question the good stuff," Dean mutters. Matt lets it go.

When they're alone, Sam repeats Matt's questions. "What was that? Did you know—"

"No," Dean cuts him off, jaw tense. Sam lets it drop, and Dean doesn't argue when he suggests stopping at the nearest motel. Sam glances at Dean from the corner of his eye. He'd suggest calling Mer, but it's still really early and the light brush of assurance from his mind to hers was more comforting than a telephone call would be.

"It's okay, you know," Sam ventures. Dean's hands tighten around the steering wheel and his mouth turns down slightly. "It's just—"

"I know," Dean snaps. "Whatever, it's fine." Sam sighs, long and heavy.

Dean checks them in and stalks to the shower, anger clear with every jerky movement. He's in there barely five minutes before he's out again, skin tinged pink and water dripping out of his hair. His tone is clipped when he tells Sam the shower's free.

Sam, for the life of him, can't figure out what bug's crawled up Dean's ass—pun and really distasteful joke totally intended. Dean had warned Sam, almost so casually Sam had ignored it, that Mer was powerful, and her abilities would increase as she got older. So unless he hadn't believed his own words, then Dean shouldn't be so angry about this.

Sam sighs and lets it slide off with the water. It's not like Dean makes a habit of being sane and making sense.

He climbs out of the shower and wraps the too-small towel around his waist. God, he can't wait to get home. They have large, fluffy towels there that wrap all the way around his body and then some.

Sam hums happily and lets the water sluice over him. He'll get out in a minute.

----

Dean looks up when Sam comes in and his mouth goes dry. The only way he can think of to fix it is to lick the water dripping off Sam's torso. He briefly indulges his fantasy before shaking it off. Nope, Sam had made himself perfectly clear, and there's so much crap between them they're better off not going there. The memory of Sam going off to college still burns. Dean goes back to sharpening his knife, growling when Sam snaps off the light mid-stroke.

He throws the whetstone in Sam's general direction as retaliation and slips the knife under his pillow.

They've only been asleep for half an hour when one of their cell phones rings. Dean groans and buries his head under his pillow, but the phone keeps ringing.

"Sam," Dean whines, his brain not quite on line yet. He hears Sam mumbled something negative and rollover. "Sam!"

"S'not important!" Sam protests. The phone stops ringing, only to start again immediately after.

"It's home," Dean says, his body tensing as the ringtone registers. Sam sits up, staring at the lighted square on the other side of the room. The phone stops ringing.

"If it's important, Whit'll call—" Dean's out of his bed as soon as the phone starts ringing again, Sam hot on his heels.

"Yeah?" Dean snaps out, heart pounding.

"Oh, thank God! Dean! I can't wake Mer up." Dean stumbles back and Sam catches him.

"What do you mean--"

"She won't wake up! She's in bed, and I've poked and shaken her and I can't wake her up!" Whit's voice gains in strength and volume, approaching hysteria. Dean looks pale and hollow.

Sam snatches the phone up and guides Dean towards the bed. "Whit, calm down—no. Calm down. Mer did something spooky last night...yes, something Winchester-freaky. Stay with her, if she starts shaking or getting hot or anything changes, get her to the hospital. Can you do that? Whit?"

"Yeah," Whit said, her voice small. "Yeah, I can do that." Dean pulls himself together and starts gathering their clothes. He has them ready to go in under a minute while Sam keeps talking to Whit, voice low and soothing. "Sam?"

"Alright, Whit. We're on our way. We're leaving now. Call if anything changes, you hear me?"

"Yeah. Okay."

He slides into the passenger seat and Dean tears out of the lot, pointed towards Iowa.


	7. Book One: Chapter 7

Dean peels out of the parking lot like Hell is after them. They tear across Oklahoma and Kansas; Sam spends most of the time praying they don't get pulled over because he can't promise Dean will stop or the cop will come away unscathed.

Sam figures either their luck has drastically improved or his prayers are working in mysterious ways because they blaze past not one but two state troopers without getting pulled, and probably more unmarked cars than he'd like to think about. They make the nine-and-a-half hour trip in just under six. Whit runs out of the house as soon as they pull up.

"She okay?" Dean asks, barreling past Whit.

"Hasn't changed." She looks horrible, with dark circles under her eyes and wild hair.

Mer looks like she's napping, her hair spread across her pillow like Sleeping Beauty. Dean presses two fingers against her pulse point and lays his head on her chest. He closes his eyes and...there she is. Distant, like when she's exhausted and deeply asleep, but he can feel her in the back of his head.

Sam steps forward and brushes his fingers against her temples. He feels a spark of recognition and a gentle surge of awareness before her consciousness recedes again. He lets out a sigh of relief, echoed by Dean.

"She's fine," Sam whispers to Whit, hovering anxiously behind them.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, pulling himself away from Mer. He looks wrecked, eyes sunken into his head and swaying on his feet. Sam hooks his arm around Dean's waist before he stumbles or falls. Whit casts one last glance at Mer's still form, unconvinced, but lets them shuffle her out of the room. Dean's harder to convince, stopping at the entrance and just staring at his daughter. He can't help one last ping, which Mer answers with the irritation of someone trying to get some rest.

After that, Dean stays pliant and biddable for Sam. Even if Sam wasn't so completely in tune with Dean's emotions he'd be able to tell his brother has hit a wall, sprinted to the edge of the cliff and skidded to a precarious stop. Sam strips Dean down to his boxers and tucks him into bed before taking care of himself.

He takes a minute to wash his face, brush his teeth and gather his thoughts. He climbs into bed with Dean before he can talk himself out of it. Dean lays stiff on his side, not even bothering to fake sleep. Sam sighs, wraps one long arm around Dean, and tugs. Dean slides into his arms, tense and unyielding.

"She's okay," Sam whispers. "She's safe and okay."

At first that gets him nothing, and Sam wonders if he seriously misjudged the situation. But then Dean starts trembling, small movements that build into bigger ones, until Dean's breath is shaking as much as his body. Sam holds his brother while he breaks apart, lets the terror he's been keeping locked inside finally free.

Sam wraps himself as tightly around Dean as possible, anchors his brother as best he can. Dean sucks in huge, sobbing breaths of air, vulnerable because a helpless little kid owns his soul and his heart and he can't protect her all the time. Especially when her mind goes walk-about in the world. Sam presses a kiss to the back of Dean's neck, light enough that he can pretend it didn't happen.

Dean's entire body pauses, like he's waiting for something to push him to action. Sam holds his breath, prays he didn't just fuck everything up. But all Dean does is let out a shuddering breath and go limp in Sam's arms, too drained to do anything but let sleep drag him down into blessed darkness.

****

They stick close to home for a long time after that. Dean has developed anxiety issues, getting nervous and fidgety when Mer's away for too long. Sam's had to fight with Dean to let Mer go to the weekly park get-together where he finally meets the elusive Finn, who is rather awesome. Not quite as awesome as Mer, but he can see why they're friends. Sam likes to think of himself as the voice of reason, post-Oasis Plains debacle.

The truth is, Sam's just as obsessive as Dean. He's just sneakier about it. He pings her almost constantly. Mer has always understood their need to check up on her; Sam is pretty sure Dean trained it into her when she was born, and she's always been warm and reassuring when either of them brushed against her. So when Mer snaps back a mental "I'm _fine_," sharp and grating, Sam backs off. Just a little bit.

And Sam moves into Dean's room. Officially. After the first night, Dean had engaged Sam in a hot debate over something or other right before bed. Sam had been so wrapped up in telling him off that he hadn't even registered Dean shutting the door behind them and climbing into bed. The light snapping off and throwing the room into darkness had been his first clue. He paused, mid-rant, and stared at Dean, a dark lump under the comforter. Sam had weighed everything he knew about Dean and finally slid into the bed, keeping his distance. Dean had grunted once, rolled over, and fallen asleep.

His stuff, once tucked into one corner of the den, migrates into Dean's room within three days. Actually, on the third day, Whit dumps his duffle on the threshold of the room with a glare. Dean helps Sam make room for his clothes without a word.

It's kind of weird, but they settle into a holding pattern, and Sam occasionally wakes up with Dean wrapped around him like an octopus, which pulls Sam in all kinds of directions. But it satisfies his increasing need to be _close_ to Dean, a hot itch that burrows under his skin and takes up residence, so Sam doesn't complain.

Dean walks around like everything is hunky dory. Sam hates him.

They fall into a routine that opens Sam wide for Dean's mockery because Sam is, essentially, a stay at home mom. Whit and Dean collectively bring home the bacon and Sam does all the shopping, cleaning, picking up and dropping off of Mer, and cooking. It's kind of nice. He has plenty of time to read, too, so he brushes up on his ancient Sumerian mythology and esoteric pre-bronze age symbols.

He ends up with pages and pages of notes and scribblings. One day, Dean comes in from the auto shop and thrusts a plastic-wrapped package at Sam's chest. He looks everywhere but at Sam, a faint blush staining his cheeks. Sam carefully pulls out a large leather-bound journal. It's sturdy and functional with a leather thong to mark the page.

Dean watches Sam out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge Sam's reaction but getting nothing.

Sam very carefully lays the journal on the coffee table, then tackles Dean off the chair and wraps him up in a full-body hug.

"Sam what the—get off me!" Dean bucks, but Sam just laughs holds on tight like he used to do as a kid, when Dean declared himself 'too manly' to do hugs. It turns into an all-out tussle, Dean trying to get away and Sam keeping him pinned tightly.

They haven't sparred like this in ages, and they topple furniture as they wrestle around the room. Dean elbows Sam in the face and gains the upper hand, catching Sam up in a headlock. Sam gets Dean off him by pulling on his shirt until one of the seams gives.

"Dude, not cool!" Dean yelps, twisting to see if his shirt has ripped. Sam laughs and wrestles Dean to the ground. Dean almost squirms away, but Sam gets his legs up around Dean's hips and twists his arms behind his back. Dean falls on Sam's chest with a grunt.

"Gotcha!" Sammy sing-songs. Dean lifts his head and looks down at Sam. Sam's breath catches in his throat.

"Yeah," Dean says. Sam's eyes zero in on Dean's lips, _Mer_ and _want_ and _rightwrongDeanmine_ crash into one another. Dean's eyes darken and he jerks down just a little. Sam raises his head, gaze fluttering between Dean's eyes and his lips.

"Bo-oys!" Dean jerks to his feet faster than Sam can blink. Fuck. He lets his head thump against the floor before pushing himself up and trailing after Dean towards the entrance, willing his cock down. He's so lost in his thoughts he runs into Dean, who has stopped in the doorway.

Whit's kneeling beside Mer, face twisted into comic incomprehension as Mer earnestly whispers what could be the secrets of the universe to her, all the while trying to pull Whit out the door. Sam and Dean watch them for a little while, neither one of them able to figure out what, exactly, is going on.

"Um. Hello?" Dean ventures, and both girls start. Whit looks at them with speculative curiosity. Mer stares at both of them, stomps her little foot in annoyance, and stalks off with a scowl on her face.

"What was that about?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," Whit mutters, still looking befuddled. "Apparently."

----

Later that night, when Sam and Dean are trolling the internet and arguing about their next case, Whit tracks Mer down to try and wrap her head around what she heard.

"Hey, Miss Ma'am," Whit says with a short knock. Mer looks up from her sketch pad and gives Whit one of those piercing looks that raises goosebumps on Whit's skin and makes her think Mer's tapped in to something way bigger than any of them guess.

"They belong," Mer tells her, going back to her coloring. She literally colors: swirls of bright and dark hues that almost make a picture but never quite do; like maybe if you had the right filter, or glanced at it sideways just so, it would make a whole lot of profound sense.

"How do they belong?" Whit asks, sliding down the wall. She picks up her own piece of paper and starts sketching.

"Mmmmmm," Mer hums, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. "They're pretty together."

"Pretty?"

"Glowy. They should be together, like Lissa and Jer."

"Lissa? The three-year-old from down the street?"

"Yep."

"And Jer..."

"Oh, he's seven and knows _everything_."

"Everything, huh?" Whit asks with a smile.

"Yep. And he fits. With Lissa, like Legos." Whit blinks. She'd been thinking puzzle or some such would be the metaphor of choice. Mer can do a puzzle like no other, brow furrowed in concentration as she carefully selects each piece and puts it where it goes—regardless of whether or not she's filled in the other pieces around it. It's freaky to watch her assemble a 5,000 piece puzzle that way, with no real starting point or referencing the box.

"Okay, I'll bite. How are they like Legos?"

"They fit," Mer explains patiently. "They snap together 'n make something newer and cooler—like the Millennium Falcon!" Whit had bought that stupid Star Wars Lego kit last Christmas and Mer had fallen in love, made them buy all the DVDs, sneered at the 'prequels' and declared Han Solo 'dreamy,' much to her father's horror. So Jer and Lissa are getting high honors here.

"So together, they're the Millennium Falcon. What are they apart?"

Mer sighs, heavy and sad. "Definitely TIE fighters."

****

Sam's nightmares take a turn one day. Instead of Jess and the fire, he's dreaming of a woman trapped in a house, beating at a window, long shadows cast over the side of a house. He wakes Dean up almost every night, to the point where he's thinking about moving back to the couch to give him a break. Sam starts sketching the weirdly familiar shadow on anything he can get his hands on. He can't figure out where he's seen it or what it is. Until Mer walks up and asks, "Why do you keep drawing trees?"

That's all Sam needs. He's off, rifling through the pictures tucked in Dad's journal—he's gone through it a hundred times since they got it—till he finds the one he's looking for. It's the tree he keeps drawing, the one that pops up in his dreams these days. One with him and Dean and Mom. Where they're outside of their house in Lawrence.

Fuck.

He has no idea how he'll convince Dean to go there, but he knows, deep down inside, that they don't have a choice. There's something there that they need to do, something they can't avoid. Unfortunately, Dean's not buying the 'just trust me' line. So apparently, it's Sam's turn to 'fess up to his freakatude.

"I've had these nightmares."

"I've noticed," Dean says dryly. Nothing like a good punch to the chest to wake up in the morning.

"They're just...sometimes they come true." Dean stares at him, waiting for more.

"People have weird dreams, man. I'm sure it was just a coincidence," Dean assured him. Sam can tell Dean doesn't believe his own words.

"No," Sam denies. He has to get this out, see this through. "I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything, and I didn't do anything about it because I didn't believe it and now I'm dreaming about that tree and a woman screaming trapped inside and—"

"Alright."

"...what?"

"Alright. We'll go." Sam's a little affronted because he expected it to be harder than that. Dean should be freaked out, sarcastic, fight him on this. Seeing him calm and agreeable? It's freaking Sam the hell out. Especially since this is Lawrence. Home. A place Dean doesn't like to think about, much less drop by for a visit.

"Dean..."

"Mer has dreams too," Dean interrupts, and leaves to pack his bag. There's not much Sam can say to that.

****

Usually when they go to leave, Mer gives them each a long, solemn hug and watches as the Impala's lights disappear down the street.

This time, she's sitting in front of the car with two of her own bags packed to the brim and a mutinous expression on her face.

"Uh oh," Dean mutters under his breath.

"What do we do?" Sam asks.

"I have no idea," Dean growls. He puts his weapons and duffle in the trunk and then goes to Mer, crouching down beside her.

"Hey, Mer-Bear, I—"

"No." It's petulant and whiney and harder than diamonds. Mer's eyes glitter angrily.

"Mer," Dean starts again.

"NO."

"Mary!"

"You can't leave without me!" Mer screams, face turning red and tears welling in her eyes. Dean cringes and Sam shifts uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than to run and hide. She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. "You can't you can't youcan't youcantyoucant!" She stomps her foot, her entire body shaking with her ire.

"Jesus, MER! CALM DOWN!" Dean picks Mer up, her limbs flailing every which way, only to double over with a loud grunt when Mer's foot hits him square in the nuts. There are now two Winchesters on the ground, Mer continuing her tantrum while Dean cradles his very tender family jewels.

Sam glances between the two of them, trying to decide whether to tackle Mer or Dean first. When Mer curls in tight and then lets her hands and legs burst out in a violent fit of pique, he decides Dean is the safest route and goes to help him up.

"Should never 've had kids," Dean moans. His eyes are suspiciously wet, but Sam pretends not to notice. There are a lot of reactions that can be forgiven due to a punch in the nuts.

"Wasn't aware you did it on purpose," Sam says with a grin. He helps Dean up, rubbing his back and coaching him to breathe. By the time Dean feels like he can get up without being nauseated, Mer's tantrum has subsided into sniffling hiccups. Her face is blotchy and she has tear tracks all over her face and her nose is running.

"Alright, Mer," Dean says, his voice deep with pain but patient. "Let's talk about what just happened."

Mer wails, "You can't—"

"Mer!" Dean's voice is a dangerous whip-crack, sharp and uncompromising. Mer's eyes widen and she (wisely) shuts up. "Why do you want to come?" Mer shifts and glances away. She only looks like that when she's guilty. Dean doesn't flinch, just stares at her until she ducks her head.

"I hadda dream," Mer sniffs, staring down at the ground. Her voice is a little hoarse from all the screaming, and Sam realizes this is the youngest she's ever seemed to him. Sam and Dean share a troubled glance

"Okay. About what?" Dean asks. Mer mutters something that neither of them catch. "What was that?"

"I can't tell you." Mer sounds miserable, and she looks it too. Sam doesn't think she's just saying it to be ornery.

"Mer. That's not acceptable. I don't—" Dean starts, but Mer interrupts him.

"I _need_ to go," she says plaintively, jaw set stubbornly. It looks like she's about to go for tantrum round two, and Dean holds up his hands.

"If you throw another fit you don't get to come," Dean declares. Mer pouts and glares at her father, then turns pleading eyes to Sam. Oh no. He's not getting involved in this one. "Mer!" Dean warns.

"I had a dream, if I don't come, bad things happen," Mer bites out, sulking. As if asking her to explain herself is the most annoying this on the planet. Sam can tell Dean's trying to hide a smirk. Dean makes Mer wait for his answer because he doesn't want her to get used to walking all over him—not that she doesn't have him wrapped around her little finger.

"Mer. If you need or want something, you _talk_ to me about it first. Explain it without the foot stomping . Save the bitching for uncassam. Otherwise you don't get whatever you want. Okay?" Mer's eyes are shiny, but she nods, chin wobbling, and doesn't let the tears fall. She raises her chin, trying to look brave and Dean freaking _loves his kid._ And honestly, Mer had him at 'dreams.' "You can come. We'll take you to see Missouri." Mer brightens, her smile wide and happy, and she hugs both their legs in jubilation before running into the house to get Mer Bear. Sam goes to get the car seat out of the garage, Dean following to get more weapons.

"My kid is not going to turn into one of those cryptic know-it-alls," Dean growls at him, and Sam doesn't bother to hold back his laugh.


	8. Book One: Chapter 8

The closer they get to Lawrence the more subdued and tense Dean becomes, fingers drumming anxiously against the steering wheel. Sam wants nothing more than to reach over and grab his hand, just to make it stop.

Mer hasn't said a word in almost sixty miles.

But mutual agreement, they drive straight through, Dean handing the keys over without a word. The faster they get this trip over with, the faster they can get home. It's almost four in the morning when the Impala pulls up to a cozy two story house. Dean kills the engine and stares out into the darkness, face drawn and tight.

If Dean could have avoided it, he never would have come back here. Missouri's awesome and all, but Lawrence makes him jumpy. He blames his call to Dad on that. Sammy's nightmares getting worse, the poltergeist won't be banished. Nothing else explains what possessed him to leave that pathetic message on Dad's answering machine.

"Hey," Sam says softly, thwacking Dean lightly on the arm. Dean starts and looks at Sam with incomprehension. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks pale against the darkness. "I, uh. I know that—" A sharp rap on the window startles them both.

"Well come on then. I've been waiting on you all night. I have to get my beauty sleep." A black woman with knowing eyes and a round, inviting face stares at them through the driver's side window.

"Gamma Mo!" Mer yells, the first thing she's said in hours, and she starts kicking the back of Sam's seat to get out.

"Oh, is that little Mary Winchester? Child, just look at how you've grown!" Dean jerks out of his stupor and climbs out of the car, a wide smile on his face. The woman turns to him and scowls. "And you." Dean swallows and takes an inadvertent step back. "When was the last time you called me?"

"Uh. I, uh..."

"You, uh, ah, er what?" Missouri asks skeptically, crossing her arms and pinning Dean in place with a highly unforgiving look.

"Sorry?" Dean says with his most charming smile.

"Yeah, I just bet you are. Well, what are you waiting for? Give us a hug!" Dean grins and lets himself get wrapped up in Missouri's giant bear hug. Missouri always manages to make him feel comfortable, like everything in this world will be okay. He imagines that if they'd grown up in a normal family, this is what having a mom would've felt like.

"You did the right thing bringing her," Missouri whispers, and a huge weight lifts from Dean's shoulders.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and gave Missouri an extra hard squeeze before letting her go.

"Samuel Winchester, as I live and breathe." Sam smiles self consciously, watching Dean move to let Mer out of her car seat.

"Uh, hi," Sam says with a small wave. Missouri looks as unimpressed with Sam as she had with Dean, so Sam sticks his hand out politely.

"Oh please," Missouri snorts contemptuously and grabs his hand, "like I need anymore of THAT from this family." Sam lets out a startled sound as she yanks him into a hug.

"Gamma Mo, Gamma Mo!" Mer struggles in Dean's arms, who rolls his eyes and sets her down on the ground.

"Mer, Mer, Mer, what have they been feeding you? You're growing like a weed!" Mer launches herself into Missouri's arms and snuggles in, looking like she might never leave. Not if she has the choice.

"Now, I know all about why you boys are here," Missouri calls over her shoulder, leaving them to grab their bags and trail after her to the house. Her home is as warm and welcoming as the woman herself. "And it's good you're learning to trust yourself, Sam."

"Uh. Thanks?" Sam ventures.

"You're welcome. Now get inside and make yourselves at home. You have a busy day tomorrow."

----

"Sam. Sam. Sam. SAM."

"WHAT?"

"Get up." Sam groans and pulls the pillow over his head. Dean pokes him in the side with relentless determination. "Come on, we have a house to check."

Sam stumbles down the stairs to the smell of bacon and eggs, pancakes and warm syrup. Mer sits on a counter stirring batter while Missouri tends the eggs and bacon. Dean is setting the table and pouring rinks. It looks domestic and cozy.

"—and then, and then, and then Jer was _so mean_ and Caitlin pushed him on the floor! And Miss Kit wasn't very happy."

"No, I imagine she wasn't," Missouri says. "You gonna just stand there all day, Sam, or are you gonna come make some pancakes?"

"PANCAKES UNCASSAM!" Mer yells, throwing her hands (and stirring spoon) up in the air. Sam watches a glob of raw batter land on Missouri's beautifully finished cabinets and drip down.

"Alright, pancakes it is," he agrees with a smile. Mer cheers, and Sam looks up just in time to catch a soft, unfamiliar look on Dean's face before it's time for breakfast.

---

"You'll be fine, Mer-Bear?" Dean checks, because he's never managed to leave without checking and checking and checking again. Usually, Mer puts up with her father's insanity with a patient smile. Today she's distracted, attention constantly sliding away. "Mer?"

"Yeah. Gamma Mo's making cookies!" Mer says brightly, but it rings hollow. Dean frowns and glances and Missouri for confirmation.

"Snicker doodles and chocolate chip," Missouri agrees with a smile.

"Alright. We'll be back soon. And I have my phone!" Dean's feet stutter uncertainly towards the door, like he doesn't want to go.

"Yes, Dean," Missouri says with fond exasperation. Sam tugs on Dean's shirt, urging him to get a move on. Dean frowns, because he can tell something's up with Mer and he really wants to know what's wrong.

"Bye, Mer," Sam calls, and gets a half-wave for his troubles. They leave Mer and Missouri standing on the porch, Mer staring east, the opposite of the way they're going, eye squinched.

"What—" Dean starts, but Missouri shushes him.

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Dean. She'll be fine."

****

Jesus, there's some bad mojo in their old house. They both feel it as soon as they walk up the path, a pervasive sense of _not right._ Something in that house is very, very angry and it has fixated on Jenny and her kids. They need back up, but even Missouri balks at the house, disturbed.

Mer straight up refuses to get out of the car; in fact, she didn't want to get _in_ the car to go to the house.

Missouri's purification spell doesn't work, and she's out of ideas. By mutual agreement, she gets Mer as far away from the house as she can and leaves the boys to fend for themselves. They'll do alright. Besides, she and Mer have an appointment at home.

Sure enough, she's got a guest sitting in her kitchen when they get home. Mer has half unbuckled herself—something she does NOT tell her parents she can do—by the time Missouri opens the car door. The little girl's off like a shot, her small legs covering ground with lightening speed. Missouri heads in at a more leisurely pace.

By the time she makes it to the kitchen, Mer is deep into a retelling of the epic struggles of Jer and Caitlin.

"—and Miss Kit made them go stand in a corner, because you shouldn't push people, even if they're stupid boys who deserve it."

"Miss Kit sounds like a very smart woman." Missouri leans against the doorframe and watches Mer meticulously count out chocolate chips in groups of fourteen, for a reason that probably makes sense to Mer.

"Oh, she's AWESOME. The coolest EVER!"

"Ever, huh?"

"Yep! Gamma Mo! Look!" Mer bounces excitedly, radiating happiness. "Granpa's here!"

"I can see that," Missouri says neutrally. John nods at her in greeting and ignores her glare with the ease of someone who's been disappointing his children for longer than he cares to remember. He's going to disappoint them again by leaving, though they won't even know it. "Lots of things going on with those boys." John flinches, and Missouri allows herself a small, humorless smile. Someone needs to take him down a peg.

"_Oh, John Winchester,"_ she thinks. _"Of all the mistakes you've ever made, this one will haunt you."_ What she says is, "Make yourself at home. We've got some time before they finish."

John takes her at her word and begins combining the cookie ingredients she hands him while Mer babbles on about her friends. John listens carefully to every word she says, storing them away for later. Mer continues moving her chocolate chips around, forming random groups and patterns on the table top. Missouri allows her mind to wander over the whole of the Winchester family.

She had never met John's Mary, but her mark rests over the entire family. Mer is named for her. Dean carries her around with him like a open wound, something he learned from his father. Sam misses her in ways he doesn't recognize because he's never not missed her. John has built his world around her absence. They're so special, all these men and the little girl at the center of their worlds. This family is touched by something, though whether it's evil or good remains to be seen.

Dean is more powerful than he realizes. He's got powers he may never know about because he's wrapped himself up so completely in his family that nothing else really gets through the veil. She blames growing up on the road, the people around him constantly changing so he had to connect with his only constants. Sam was his only anchor, so she's not too surprised by what they're moving towards. That's bigger than all of them, and she's not one to throw stones. Plus Mer would glare at her.

And Sam. He's as powerful as Mer, and though he hasn't tapped into that reserve yet, he's making scary progress. She gets a cold shiver when she thinks of such raw talent without having to work for it. For all his powers, she can't imagine how he missed his father's presence.

"It's 'cause he's not listening." It takes a moment for Missouri to realize Mer is talking to her.

"What's that?"

"Why uncassam doesn't feel Granpa. He's not listening."

"Hm. Well. He's going to have to do better than that, isn't he? You gonna teach him?" Mer giggles, and John smiles tightly. His discomfort with his boys' abilities clouds the air around them, and Mer hunkers down in her seat, acutely aware of her grandfather's conflicting emotions. The day Missouri Mosely rewards John's prejudices will be the day she's possessed by Lucifer himself, so she continues on. "What about Dean? Why isn't he listening?"

"He doesn't want to know," Mer says blithely. The only sign that Mer's pronouncement affects John is a tightening of his mouth, lines appearing at the corners. Missouri can tell Mer knew her announcement would upset John because she watches her grandfather out of the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction.

_Oh child, you are a sly one,_ Missouri thinks, and the brief, smug look Mer shoots her is far older than her age.

They mix cookie batter in silence, the air heavy around them. Missouri tries to clear her mind and ignore John's thoughts, but it's not easy. The man's a font of dark energy and worry. When the swirl of emotions hits a peak, she decides to head it off at the pass.

"I'm going to do the dishes," she calls of her shoulder. "You two go make yourself comfortable elsewhere."

She can feel John staring at her back, but eventually he picks up Mer in his arms and moves into the living room. Lord have mercy, it's like a breath of fresh air when he clears the room.

----

John's pack rests against the couch in Missouri's waiting room. He's keenly aware of it, sitting there so innocently. Mer's arms tighten around his neck and she buries her face against him.

"Hey Mer," He soothes, rubbing his hand down her back. She accepts the touch, then wiggles to get down. John obliges, setting her gently on her feet. She sticks her thumb in her mouth and stares at his pack like she knows what he has in there. For all he knows, she can feel it in spite of the muting spells on it.

He pulls a package wrapped in soft leather, protective markings etched on its surface, out of his bag. The package is thick and heavy, and very old. Mer stares at it, wide-eyed. John holds it out to her and opens his mouth to talk, but Mer shakes her head and backs away.

"Mer—"

"It's not Time," she whispers, looking scared. "Every Time is set and you're not here. Supposed to be there. It's not for the now! For the tomorrows! Today will be yesterdays too soon and not for me! No!" John reels back in fear; he has no idea what Mer's saying, she isn't making any sense but she's obviously upset and terrified. Her eyes are glazed, wild and vacant. There's one thing he knows for certain though: this book was written for his granddaughter. It's destined for her, whether she wants it or not.

"I don't...I don't understand." John unwraps the object to reveal a book, its pages yellowed with age. Mer starts trembling, her eyes glued to the cover.

"Not now. Not now. Don't wanna-can't! No! NO!" Mer crashes into the coffee table, and John reaches for her in alarm but she twists away from him. She's crying and has her hands over her ears. "It wants be gone! Too short, it's not tomorrows yet! LEAVE ME ALONE!"

"John? Mer?" Missouri's voice sounds like it's from far away. "What going—" she gasps, her startled eyes falling on the book in his hand.

"PUT THAT AWAY." John starts at the command in Missouri's voice, blanches at how pale she's gone; her normally luminous skin looks tepid and wan.

"Okay. Okay," John placates, scared by their reactions. Though really, when he actually thinks about it, a book of this much power and prophecy must bear a mark. "Mer, I'm putting it away, alright?" John slips it back into his satchel. Mer shakes until he's put the satchel just outside the door, pretty confident that anything that inspires such reactions in two psychics won't be bothered. He returns to the parlor and as soon as he sits down in one of the rocking chairs, Mer climbs onto his lap and hides her face in his chest. He rocks her gently, humming low under his breath so the vibrations of his voice rumble soothingly through her. God, she's shaking like a leaf, and he feels like a complete ass.

"You ARE an ass, John Winchester!" Missouri hisses, but her heart isn't in it. She looks as shaken as Mer does, and sits gingerly in her chair. The rocking motion quickly lulls Mer into a light sleep, which gives Missouri free reign with her tongue. "What do you mean bringing that into my house?"

"It's...it's Mer's." Missouri scoffs and glares at him, her color rapidly returning now that the book is again wrapped in its spelled cover cloth.

"What do you mean? That's a powerful talisman, John Winchester. Fiercely powerful. How do you know it's Mer's?"

"I read it."

"You...read it?" Missouri repeats incredulously. "Why do I find that hard to believe?"

"Part of it," John clarifies. "The part I'm allowed to." Missouri raises and eyebrow and probes into John's mind and...that stupid, stupid man.

"Oh Lordy." John Winchester to a T, getting involved in things that are none of his business. But he looked, and now he has to bear the consequences, like it or not.

"Things..." John clutches Mary tighter to him. She still smells like baby, like Sam and Dean did when they were her age. She's just a kid, a really special kid, but she's still got time to laugh and live and play without worries or cares. "Things are going to get bad." He wishes he had never found the book. Had never opened it and chased its secrets. But he gets the feeling that wasn't an option, and that pisses him off because he's no slave to fate. But that book would have found its way to him, and then Mer, regardless.

"Things are always getting bad," Missouri mutters. "Be that as it may, it's not hers yet. She's four, John. She's a powerful psychic, but she's still just a baby. Don't you dare take that away from her."

"I—"

"That...thing," Missouri spits the word in distaste and glares in the book's general direction, "has more spells and supernatural imprints on it than anything I have ever felt. Trust me when I tell you it will take care of itself."

"But—"

"Don't you dare 'but' me. You know I'm right." John's lips press together in annoyance and he turns his attention back to his granddaughter. She's grown so much since he'd seen her last. And she looks more like Dean every day.

"You want to get rid of it." Missouri gives voice to his secret, and John burns with shame. Missouri looks satisfied at his reaction. "It's a burden, and if there's one thing you don't need it's another weight on your shoulders. And that sucks for you, John Winchester, but if you love that little girl like I know you do, you'll take that away and keep it safe like you're supposed to. Y'hear?" She turns her gaze to him and he shrugs. He doesn't really have a choice here, and they both know it. This whole thing had been a desperate, selfish attempt to make life easier for him. The nerve of that man, being mad about a situation of his own making. But what he won't admit, what Missouri knows and will never say aloud, is that he's terrified of what else he's going to read.

They sit in silence, John stroking Mer's back and trying to remember every little detail about this moment. Too soon, Missouri stirs.

"Your boys are coming back." She can't quite keep the note of censure from her tone, and her eyes burn as he gets in his truck and drives away, satchel on the passenger seat, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Mer watches John go with wide eyes, hand tight in Missouri's, sadness not as well-contained as she thinks.


	9. Book One: Chapter 9

Dean and Sam have two cases back-to-back that get taken care of without too much trouble. Well, as long as you don't count Sam and Dean trying to kill one another in an abandoned (and really creepy) insane asylum or the myth behind _Jeepers Creepers_ coming to life and trying to eat people 'too much trouble.'

Okay, sometimes the life gets to them. They're both feeling pretty wound up, so Dean decides they need a night on the town before they head back home. Sam rolls his eyes but goes along with it. He's been having trouble sleeping since going back to Lawrence. More trouble. At this rate, he's going to forget that a 'goodnight's sleep' means about eight hours, uninterrupted. He's happy if he gets three hours without waking up in a cold sweat.

They're not in the bar five minutes before Dean's been hit on twice. Once by their waitress and once by the bartender. The very male bartender. But Dean ignores them both, and the third, the fourth, the fifth-sixth-seventh and on and on until The Blonde shows up. She's got legs up to forever and hair that actually shines in the light.

Dean sits up straighter when he sees her approaching and his body languages shifts into something much more...available. Sam struggles to keep his expression blank and bored.

"Either of you have a light?" She tries to make her voice sound deep and husky, and it's clear she's not talking to Sam at all. Sam doesn't even bother to look up. He hears the metallic snick of Dean's lighter opening. "You're not from around here, are you?" Sam snorts into his beer. Seriously?

"Can't say as we are. What's a pretty little thing like you doing in a dive like this?" Sam stares at Dean incredulously. _Seriously?_ One bad line does not deserve another.

To Sam's everlasting shock and disbelief, Dean and The Blonde disappear into the back of the bar. Well fuck. Sam drains his glass and throws some bills down on the table for tip. This place suddenly makes him feel claustrophobic and dirty, and the faster he goes to sleep (or tries), the faster he'll wake up to a brand new day.

----

Dean's in the middle of unbuttoning the super hot chick's shirt when something stabs through his brain.

"Ow ow ow!" He jerks away and rubs the heel of his hands into his eyes, vision swimming and stomach rolling. "Fuck!"

"What's wrong, baby?" The Blonde trails her hand suggestively down Dean's chest, and Dean manages to muster up a leer. The pain recedes, and he's back in the game.

"Nothin' worth stopping for." She tastes like vodka and Jäeger with a cigarette chaser. He pulls her to him and backs them up against the wall. And old poster of Sid Vicious watches them, and Dean wonders what kind of stories he could tell. She wraps a leg around his hip and he's sliding his hand over her thigh when the pain hits again, sharper and more unforgiving.

"FUCK!" Dean stumbles back, nausea rolling through his belly, and he gags this time.

"What the hell?" The girl looks pissed, hands on her hips and lips pressed together. And she suddenly looks extremely unattractive. Her make up is caked on, and her clothes don't quite fit her anymore. She has lipstick on her teeth and Dean no longer feels even the stirring of interest.

He _does_ feel a sense of satisfaction that isn't his own. Dean frowns and concentrates; definitely someone else's feelings echoing through him, and it doesn't feel like Sammy.

"Mer?" he wonders, trying to ping her. She's not giving him any confirmation though. But perhaps the icy, impenetrable wall that's usually his very loving daughter is answer enough.

"My name is Allison." Well, no doubt about it, the hot chick is really pissed off and Dean couldn't get laid now even if he wanted to.

"Uh, right. Ah." She stares at him expectantly, but Dean is suddenly too tired to think. Really, when he'd suggested the bar he'd just wanted a drink or two. He hadn't been looking for this, but he wasn't the kind of person to turn down a sure thing. Now, his original plan seems like the better option. All he wants to do is collect Sam and grab a few hours of sleep before heading home to his kid. "Nice knowing you."

"Wha—seriously? You're going to give up THIS? What the fuck? You asshole! How dare you!" Dean escapes her whining with a sigh of relief. What had he been thinking? He shakes his head and moves towards their booth, only Sam's nowhere to be found. Dean wonders if Sam found his own girl (that doesn't make him seethe with an emotion approaching jealousy at all) and dismisses it. Sam's not that kind of guy.

Instead of panicking, Dean closes his eyes and pings Sam. He's in their room.

Dean makes his way to the motel alone, three blocks by foot. Sam is a dark lump in the other bed, and sleep doesn't come easy to anyone that night.

----

So yeah, in the aftermath of two pretty crappy hunts and one failed attempt to get laid, Dean is looking forward to spending some quality time with his couch and his daughter and his...Sam. Oh, and Whit.

That plan lasts about three days, and then Sam's displeasure is too much to bear. He hovers in doorways, stares at Dean until his eyes have bored holes into the back of Dean's head; he bangs pots and pans in the kitchen and snaps at Dean whenever he tries to help. Dean tries to ignore it, but on day four he snaps.

"What bug crawled up your ass and died?" Dean seethes as another pot goes clattering into the cupboard. Sam spins around and pulls out his most infuriating bitchface, the one that Dean thinks makes him look like a horse.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sam avows. Dean stares at him incredulously, and Sam's jaw sets. "What?"

"Nothing." Dean stomps away and turns the TV up loud. The pots and pans commence their obnoxious symphony. Five minutes later, Dean pulls out the laptop. He can relax when he's dead.

****

FUCK. FUCK!

"Dean! Dean! Come on, stay with me!" Sam coaxes a little more speed out of the Impala. Dean's skin is waxy and pale, frighteningly lifeless. He can see the pulse point in Dean's neck flutter, then stop. "DEAN!" He reaches for his brother; when his fingers slide over Dean's neck, a burst of power surges out of him and Dean's body jerks. Sam can feel a pulse.

"Come on Dean, you can't leave me like this." And then they're at the hospital, where medical people take Dean away and Sam is left alone in the cold, sterile waiting room.

----

A couple of weeks.

Sam stares at the wall, research spread around him. Two weeks. Fourteen days. At most.

His phone rings, and Sam knows it's home before he even looks at the screen. He sends the call to voicemail, just as he's done the fifty other times it's rung. He blocks Mer from his thoughts as well. He doesn't want to talk to her. For some reason, he can call his absentee father and leave a message about Dean, but he can't talk to Dean's kid. Can't tell her—

A knock at the door startles him out of his morose thoughts.

He's not sure why he's surprised Dean checked himself out of the hospital AMA, smiling and joking, "I refuse to die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot." The smile slides off his lips when Sam's phone rings again, and they both know who it is.

"Sammy—" Dean starts, his tone of voice wavering and serious. No. Sam is NOT going to stand here while Dean dictates his last will and testament. He's not going to listen Dean give him his car or...or his kid. Mer is going to grow up with Dean there beside her, going to her soccer games, threatening to kill the first guy who breaks her heart, walking her down the aisle, even if Sam has to get him there at gun point.

Sam crushes Dean to his chest, just wraps himself around his brother and refuses to let go. Dean is stiff for a moment, then melts into Sam, because he's got so much to live for now.

"I've got a name," Sam says softly. "One of dad's friends. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A...a specialist." Dean pulls back to look at him, lips tinged lightly blue from lack of circulation, and nods once.

The phone rings. This time Sam turns it off completely and crawls into the same bed as Dean. Neither one of them say anything when Dean rolls into Sam, whose arms are already open and waiting.

****

Dean shrugs off all attempts to help him during the trip to Nebraska. If he's going to die, he's going to die on his own steam. He takes in the white sign with the cross on it. Shoots Sam a look, but otherwise keeps silent. Mer is an invisible ghost between them. Not invisible enough; they can both feel her lurking at the periphery of their consciousness, trying to get in where they've shut her.

They're both tense and uncomfortable in the tent. This whole set-up rubs Dean the wrong way, and he'd venture Sammy would feel the same way if he weren't so single-minded and focused on getting Dean better. Dean can't help a muttered comment about charlatans stealing people's money; there are so many desperate people in this tent, people wasting away from cancers, hollow-eyed and scared.

He fights the call to come up to the stage, but he can't not go. He has to do this. For Mer. And because he doesn't want to die. He's not ready.

He expects a lot of things. Pageantry. Disappointment. Sermonizing. Fakery.

He doesn't expect to actually be healed.

---

Dean would love to be thankful and go home with Sam. Wrap his arms around Mer and never let her go, promise her and himself that he'll be more careful. Pull Sam down onto the couch with them and watch reruns on TV. But there's something _wrong_ here, and he can't let it go. Especially if that young guy died so he could live.

He elects to talk to the preacher, not just because he's their prime suspect. There's a question that burns in him, and he wants answers.

"Why? Why me?"

"Like I said before," Preacher Roy tells him without hesitation, "the Lord guides me. I looked into your heart and you just...stood out from all the rest."

"What did you see in my heart?" Dean can't imagine that if the preacher or his God knew what was really in his heart—all the stuff having to do with Sammy is just the surface—he'd have found him very worthy.

"A young father with an important purpose and a job to do. And it isn't finished." He cocks his head and his blind eyes look beyond Dean. "Your daughter needs you. You have work to do. God has a plan. Trust in it."

Dean leaves feeling unbalanced, because Roy meant every word he said with a deep, unwavering faith. He truly thinks Dean is Destined for Great Things. Dean runs into Layla and her mother on the way out, two people they'd met at the revival, and it doesn't help him find his footing.. Layla, who has a brain tumor and six months to live, is beautiful. On the inside. If his psychic stuff were of a visual nature, Dean would bet she'd be bright gold and white and everything pure. Her mother, though, is so torn up about losing her daughter she's turned mean and spiteful. He can feel the impotent rage sliding inside of her, feeding on itself. It cancels out Layla's gentleness and leaves a bad taste in Dean's mouth.

For being newly not-dying, this has turned into a fucking shitty day. Especially when Sam confirms that someone's life was traded for his own.

"GodDAMN it, Sam!"

"Dean."

"FUCK!" He feels sick because he can't help but be glad he's alive. That they _didn't_ know. That he's not the one who died.

"Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"If it's too good to be true, then it is," Dean bites out. His anger is misplaced; this isn't Sam's fault, they both went into this and Dean had ignored his instincts because survival had won. Most powerful drive in the human psyche, he's been told.

"I'm sorry."

"We have to stop him," Dean says, and Sam agrees.

----

Sam's sickened by what he finds. Articles about people who fight for a woman's right to chose, for gay rights and against long-standing prejudice. People declared 'immoral' and 'unclean' by someone's twisted interpretation of a religion that claims to love everyone equally in the name of a benevolent God.

Sam feels a bright streak of hate flash through him. Roy is meting out judgments as he sees fit.

_Judge not, that you be not judged. For with the judgment that you pronounce you will be judged, and the measure you give will be the measure you get. Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?_

It's convenient how people can believe so rigidly in some parts of the Bible, and gracelessly ignore the parts they'd rather not hear. How would Roy feel knowing his 'pure of heart Chosen One whose heart outshone all the others in the room' had once fucked a night away with his brother?

Sam growls and shoves the memories aside, but not before promising to actually DEAL with them when this is over. He and Dean have put this talk off long enough, and Sam isn't wasting any more time. If nothing else, this brush with death has at least lifted a pretty fuckin' big log out of Sam's eye.

----

The world hates him. That's the only explanation for why tonight, of all nights, Layla gets called up to the stage. Layla, who is truly truly one of the good guys. She _resonates_, bright and shiny. Her disposition seeps into Dean whenever she's around.

"You can't let him heal you." It hurts him to say, to know he's condemning her. But she wouldn't want this. Wouldn't want someone to die so she can live—not if she's the kind of person he knows her to be. She's confused, of course, because she's been waiting for months, and Dean can't bear to tell her the whole truth. He watches, torn, as she smiles nervously at her mom from the stage.

Dean closes his eyes and feels for Sam; he's hyped up, running from the Reaper with David Wright, the man Roy's trading for Layla's life. Dean can feel David's panic and fear, bitter and sharp. He needs to do something, and now.

"Fire! The tent is on fire! Everybody get out of here!" People scream and mill in confusion, spilling out of the tent on onto the lawn.

Dean calls Sam to check in, but the Reaper's still coming. Which doesn't make sense unless Roy isn't controlling this thing. Which only leaves—

"Sue Anne!" There is a moment where they understand one another completely. And then Sue Anne screams for help and Dean gets dragged away by the local good ole boys. But at least he saved David.

"I just don't understand. After everything we've done for you, after Roy healed you. I'm disappointed in you, Dean," Sue Anne says to him. Her words, spoken in her soft Southern cadence, are underscored by malice. "I'm not pressing charges. The Lord will deal with him as he sees fit."

Dean wrenches his arm away from the policeman, creatively threatening to put the fear of God in him, and turns right into Layla's gently accusing stares. He can't help but ache for her, and a part of him wishes he could save her. But he can't. Before Mer, he'd have done it. If it had come down to it, he wouldn't have fought, would have traded his life for hers. Or at the very least, seriously considered it. But he can't be that selfish anymore. His life is not his own. So he's going to interrupt Layla's second healing, condemn her to waste away slowly. Condemn her mother to watch her daughter slip away day by day.

----

Dean distracts the hick cops while Sam goes in search of Sue Anne and the dark altar. Who knew a church basement could be so creepy? Only Sam discovers that Sue Anne's next victim is Dean, and he's back to two weeks all over again. He beats at the cellar door, barricaded by the psycho bitch, his mind chanting _Dean Dean Dean Dean!_ He redoubles his efforts when he feels the icy stab of Dean's fear cascade over him. The Reaper's coming for him.

Dean stands, frozen, as the Reaper approaches. He's torn between letting him come, giving Layla what she so richly deserves, and running for his life, hoping Sam will pull a real miracle out of the air. But then he has a vision of Mer, green eyes twinkling with mischief, bouncing for joy, and his feet trip over the ground as he turns to run. It's futile; no one escapes Death. But he's not going to take this lying down.

When the Reaper has him, his touch burning the life out of him, he starts thinking about his regrets. There are a few he can't do anything about. But there's one he had the power to change. For a second he's incredibly pissed at himself for not taking the chance, for shutting Sam down and not letting him talk. One night has dictated and overshadowed almost five years of their lives. It didn't need to be that way...

Sam feels his brother slipping away. It's like someone has dumped ice in his chest and he can't breathe, can't think. His power explodes out, shattering the flimsy wooden door. It rolls through him, hot and out of control, a torrent threatening to pull him under.

He sees Sue Anne, her lips forming ritual words, filled with the deep certainty that's she doing _God's work._ He rips the necklace off her with a deep twist of satisfaction and sends the talisman shattering to the ground. He wants to break her, rip into her and watch her bleed out on the ground for daring to touch his family. But he resists, and the darkness fades into the background, and Death comes for her anyways.

...and then Dean can breathe again, the Reaper vanished into the night, and it doesn't need to stay that way.


	10. Book One: Chapter 10

They don't talk on the way back to the motel. They don't need to, the tension crackling between them is saying quite enough.

Sam turns his phone on just for something to do and winces when it beeps at him. Thirty voicemails, more missed calls than that. Crap, they were going to catch hell for not checking in. Sam doesn't even want to think about what Mer must have felt or gone through. Fuck, dealing with this is not going to be fun or easy.

Dean pulls up in front of the room and cuts the engine. The sudden silence feels intimate and close; Sam is acutely aware of Dean's breathing and the nervous rub of his hands over his jeans.

"Today sucked," Dean mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah." Sam grins wryly and ducks his head cause...yeah. It really, really did. In fact, he's ready to declare this whole week a wash. He starts when Dean's hand settles on his arm, firm and warm.

"Let's go, Sammy." Dean squeezes once and climbs out of the car, Sam right behind him. Sam feels...giddy. Nervous. Excited. Scared out of his mind. Things are changing, they're finally ready to talk about this. All it took were a couple brushes with death and a psycho religious chick. The irony was not lost on him.

When he gets into the room, Dean is standing between the two beds staring into space.

"Dean?" Sam asks. Dean slowly turns around to face him and his eyes are hot embers in the low light, smoldering. Dean lets his mask slip and Sam can read everything. Arousal snakes though him, makes his breathing hitch and his eyes dilate.

Dean licks his lips. It has no business being as hot as it is. He smirks, then opens his mouth and Sam's phone rings. Wicked blares and Sam sees Dean pull away, the shutters coming down with a bang. Dean holds his hand out for the phone and Sam gives it over without complaint. Better Dean than him.

Dean stares at the screen for a moment, then clears his throat and connects the call.

"Hello?" Dean frowns. "Hello?"

"YOU FUCKERS!" Sam winces, because he can hear Whitney's voice from across the room, angry and strident. Dean yanked the phone away from his ear. "YOU...I CANNOT **BELIEVE** YOU—" Whit makes a strangled, cat-like sound that conveys more eloquently than anything the depth of her anger.

"Whit, how's--"

"Shut up, _Dean_," Whit hisses, and her anger is a tangible force in the room, dark and violent. Dean swallows, and his eyes find Sam's.

"You're okay?" Whit asks, her voice shaking around the edges.

"Yeah Whit. I'm...I'm fine."

Silence. They can hear her start to speak several times, but she never does, just snaps her teeth together with a click and breathes harshly into the phone.

"Is Sam there?" she finally growls.

"Y-yeah, Whit," Dean hastens to assure her. He puts the phone on speaker.

"I'm here," Sam says, wincing at how timid his voice comes out. She's silent again, the seconds ticking away. Both of them hold still and breathe lightly, as if that will make her forget they're there. It doesn't work.

"You are both," she says, words bitten off and tight, "the scummiest scum that has ever existed on the face of this Earth. You do not deserve her you selfish, pathetic, _undeserving_ excuse for a father." Dean flinches at that, the color draining from his face. Sam reaches out to comfort him, but Dean shies away.

"Is she—?"

"You do not get to talk!" Whit snaps, and Dean's lips press together so tight they almost disappear. Sam bristles; he wants to snatch the phone away and rip into Whitney as effectively as she's ripping into Dean, but he holds himself back.

"Are you listening to me?" Whit demands.

"Yes," Dean says curtly.

"This is what you are going to do. You are going to get into that death trap you call a car. You are going to break every speed limit and every law to get here _as soon as possible._ You will not pass Go, you will not collect two hundred dollars, and you will _be prepared to grovel_ at your daughter's feet and be happy she _loves you more than anything in this world_ and will forgive you for what you did! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" Dean's eyes are glassy, but he doesn't let the tears fall. "Do you—"

"Yes. I understand." Dean sounds absolutely miserable.

"SAM!" Sam jerks up and stares at the phone.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Do you understand?" Whit's voice tells him he'd better fucking understand or he'll regret it.

"I—I, yes. Yes, I under—"

"Good." And then she's hung up and the call length flashes up at them. Dean throws the phone at Sam and stalks over to his bags. They haven't actually unpacked, and it's a matter of moments before they're both in the car.

This time, the tension feels stifling and stale.

****

"Missouri called. Says they're fine." John stares blankly at Bobby before swallowing and nodding. Sam's message still plays on a loop in his head; he doesn't think he'll forget the thinly veiled desperation in Sam's voice any time soon.

"You should call 'em," Bobby tells him. Instead of answering, John gets up and gets the bottle of whisky out of the cupboard. He ignores his friend's darkly muttered, "Idjit must be genetic."

Bobby lets him be for a while, for which John is thankful. It's not going to last much longer, but John can set about getting blissfully drunk before Bobby calls him on it.

"You plannin' on sharing?" Bobby asks after John's demolished half the bottle of whisky and doesn't look like he plans to stop.

"Depends," John grunts. The world shifts to the left and John slides with it. He blinks and finds himself staring at Bobby's scuffed shoes. He carefully turns his head and looks up up up at his friend's face, which is way far up there. And kind of blurry. In fact, Bobby looks like a floating beard. That's frowning. Do beards frown?

"What the hell are you translating up there, Winchester?" Bobby asks, shaking his head. He hasn't seen John this intent on obliteration in many a year. He's also never known John to insist on doing his own research and translating, especially the long-dead languages that Bobby and maybe five other people in the world are familiar with. Bobby keeps trying to figure out what's going on, but all he keeps coming up with is Bad.

"I can't protect 'em," John confesses. "Won't be there."

****

They don't keep track of the time. Sam spends the trip concentrating on not getting them pulled over, imagining them wrapped in a police-free cocoon. Dean doesn't say a word, doesn't put on any music, just drives.

The sun has just crested the horizon, the sky a gorgeous melding of colors that neither of them can properly appreciate, when they pull into town. Their street is stirring, people leaving for work and school, as they pull into the drive way. Dean leans his forehead against the wheel. Sam takes a leap and brushes his fingers over the back of Dean's neck, lightly kneading the muscles and reminding Dean he's here, they're together, and they'll get through this.

Dean lets Sam touch, just long enough for the world to stop spinning. When he feels up to it, he sits up, takes a deep breath, and pushes out of the car. Time to face the music.

Whit opens the door and if looks could kill they'd be dead many times over. Sam feels about three feet tall. Dean can't meet her eyes. She snorts derisively and turns her back on them, walks into the kitchen and starts making herself something to drink with far more force than is necessary.

Dean stares after her for a long moment, then turns his attention to the stairs. Mer feels muffled and contained, her usually vibrant energy muted. It makes the house feel empty and unwelcoming. Dean starts making his way up the stairs, and Sam's at a loss about what to do.

"Sammy?" Sam turns around and shoots Dean a questioning look. "You comin'?" Sam knows he looks like an idiot, mouth hanging open and eyes wide with shock, but...Dean wants him in on this? He takes too long to respond, Dean's face goes blank and smooth as he turns away. Sam drops his pack with a clatter and crowds close behind Dean as they walk down the hall, making his presence known. He may be imagining it, but it looks like Dean relaxes a fraction.

They pause outside of Mer's door. Dean can't seem to bring himself to knock, so Sam does it for him, three quick raps before _he_ can lose his nerve. No answer.

"Mer?" Dean calls, his voice breaking. He clears his throat. "Mary? Can I come in?" Still nothing. Dean sighs and lets his chin fall against his chest, eyes screwed shut.

"Mer, we'd like...we'd like to talk to you," Sam tries, and his words sound lame even to him. "To, uh, explain. And apologize." When she doesn't respond to that, Sam closes his eyes and reaches for her with his mind. He slams up against mental walls that feel insurmountable, and he hadn't even known she could do that. They feel like the coldest cold and the hottest hot, so slippery he can't find a handhold. He yanks himself back with a gasp, and Dean steadies him.

"She, uh. She's pissed," Sam says, and Dean snorts, but it lacks anything approaching humor. Dean glares at the door, and Sam can tell he's thinking about just breaking it down, which would not be a good idea. "I have an idea."

He reaches out and settles his hand around Dean's neck. Not because he needs the contact; more because he wants it. Dean stares at him, and for a second everything drifts away and it's just them, together. Sam smiles, concentrates, and pushes his mind lightly into Dean's. Dean's eyes widen in response and he pushes back.

Good.

Sam...he kind of twines them together, looping over Dean and around him. Dean lets him, watching Sam spin them around one another, creating a helix of connection. When Sam is satisfied he turns them towards Mer. They keep their thoughts gentle and contrite, letting their love and apology speak for themselves. Sam wraps them around the tightly shielded ball of emotions that makes up Mer; doesn't try to infringe, just lets the truth of their feelings seep through her shields, asks her to talk to them, forgive them.

They fall into the room when Mer opens the door. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and her nose is shiny. She's wearing one of Dean's sweatshirts and it completely swallows her. She crawls onto her bed, curling into the smallest ball she can.

It fucking breaks their hearts, watching her curl around Mer Bear, fur matted with tears.

Dean crawls into bed and wraps his arms around her, pulling his daughter to his chest. Sam hesitates a moment, long enough for Dean to send him a sharp mental whack. Sam slides into the other side of the bed and runs his fingers through Mer's hair. She lets out a shuddering breath, her entire body shaking.

"Mer," Dean whispers, his voice thick. She shakes her head and buries her face in Mer Bear's stomach.

"I'm sorry, baby girl. So very, very sorry," Dean whispers. His eyes are screwed shut, but a tear leaks out. Sam reaches out and tangles his fingers with Dean over Mer's back. "Didn't mean it. Couldn't...sorry. Sorry sorry sorry." Dean lets some of his fear and worry leak out between them, not enough to overwhelm, just enough that they can both taste the depth of his reactions to almost dying.

Sam adds his own feelings—his determination not to let Dean die, how focused he had to be to make that happen, his anger, fear, love for his family.

He and Dean are pretty far into their pity party when they realize Mer has slowly started to loosen up, is letting them slide in under her shields again. They get flashes from her: the searing pain of Dean's electrocution; Whitney's terrified face as Mer screamed on the floor; her attempts to call Dean, then Sam after they realized Dean's cellphone was fried; Dean's subsequent revival, but at a terrible cost; the feeling of Sam, a pillar of her network, suddenly pulling away, Dean doing the same. She was so very, very scared and alone.

Sam feels like a complete ass. He hadn't realized how much Mer relied on him as a grounding point. Dean, yeah, but him? It startles him that he's as much apart of Mer's mental foundation as Dean. And he was more important than Whitney, which didn't make sense because she had always been there. Why...how? Sam gets yanked out of his thoughts when Dean's finger's tightening painfully around his, and he opens his eyes to meet Dean's wet gaze.

"You're blood, you idiot," Dean says without rancor. Sam is completely dumbfounded, though he shouldn't be because it's _always_ about the blood. Whit doesn't have an iota of supernatural talent in her, so Mer can't connect with her quite the way Sam and Dean can. And Mer puts Sam almost on par with Dean. And Dean is cool with that. Actually, he's kind of relieved and really happy about it. Sam closes his eyes and tries to wrangle his emotions into some kind of discernible order, because right now they're a tangled mess.

Since this is a night of revelations, and he's already had several, the fact that Mer has two dads doesn't pack quite the punch it could. And it's so stupidly true he can't believe he hasn't seen it earlier. When he finally opens his eyes, they're both watching him intently.

And Sam smiles, and lets his acceptance wash over them. Mer's happy contentment blooms between them. They're not naïve enough to assume she's alright—not by a long shot, she's going to make them pay, Sam can feel it in his bones—but she's at least forgiven them for now. And it's enough.

They fall asleep on the bed, the three of them in the early morning light.

****

Dean wakes up because his daughter is staring at him, her emotions sliding over his skin and burrowing under it. Her anger prickles, but her joy at having him back sings just beneath that, soothing the sting.

"Mer-Bear?" he mumbles, voice sleep rough. Mer frowns at him, narrows her eyes dangerously. "What—" Her tiny hand darts out and she grabs his chin and brings their faces close together. Dean has no idea what's going on.

"No leave me again!" Mer commands, each word punctuated by a shake of his head. Dean's trying to get past the bad grammar of that sentence—something that rarely slips out in Mer's speech, but when it does it's jarring—and her complete seriousness. Her baby-face is schooled into a deep frown, and if she were older she might look harsh and angry but she can't pull it off because her baby-fat makes her features too round and angelic.

She thinks he takes too long to answer because she shakes his head again, and even if her face can't pull of hard anger, her eyes glint with it.

"Yeah," Dean promises hoarsely. "I promise. Never again." Mer studies him, and he feels her ping him to test the truth of his words. And that hurts just as much as this whole stupid situation, because she's always trusted him. Her dad could do no wrong, would never lie to her. He's shattered that trust, and he'll never have it so unconditionally again.

Growing up sucks.

----

Sam and Dean tread lightly the next day, acutely aware of how much they fucked up. Whit stays out of their way, but whenever she catches sight of them her face darkens and they don't need freaky powers to tell that she is _pissed_. They cook her favorite foods for lunch, but she stays in her room and ignores the plate they leave by her door.

They take Mer out for ice cream and to the park as a part of their extended apology. She sticks close to them, touches them both a lot, and outdoes Dean with the mental check-ins. Dean returns every single one with patient penitence.

They all try to ignore the gaping hole at the dinner table that night. Dean resigns himself to buying several stores' worth of candy and flowers and signing contracts in blood to appease Whit. Sam must catch his thought because he snorts and shoots Dean and amused look. They both appreciate the irony.

They also don't try to trundle Mer off to bed as soon as the clock hits 8. They let her stay up, snuggled between them on the couch, eyes drooping. Sam's arm is draped along the back, and his fingers brush against the back of Dean's neck. Dean has his hand curved protectively around Mer, but he invariably grazes the edge of Sam's thighs. Those are the only two places they touch, but it feels intimate and Dean is hyper aware of everything Sam. A nervous tension crackles between them.

Dean finally decides it's time to tuck Mer into bed when she slumps forward and he has to catch her before she falls off the couch. Sam helps ease her into his arms and they both make their way to her room. She protests a little when they tuck her in. Dean slides Mer Bear into her arms and kisses her softly on the head, letting his emotions buffet gently against her, and she settles into sleep with a sigh. Sam does the same thing, wondering at how completely this tiny life has changed his world.

Dean watches his daughter sleep, and Sam can feel how hard it is for him to imagine leaving her, of dying and not getting to watch his daughter grow up. He wants to be there for everything, and even though that's not possible with the life they've chosen, Sam will damn well try to make sure Dean at least gets to see the important stuff.


	11. Book One: Chapter 11

"She's out," Dean says, closing the door softly behind him. Sam nods, but doesn't say anything else, so they just stare stupidly at each other in the cramped hallway. If Sam cares to look he can pick out the flutter of Dean's pulse.

"She's an amazing kid," Sam finally says, because it's true and it deserves to be said. Dean smiles with all the pride of a parent.

"She's gonna be five soon."

"Comes after four," Sam teases just to make Dean roll his eyes. "Six is next, by the way."

"School is next," Dean counters, and there's an unhappy lilt to his expression, worry and pride and fear. Like it's already the first day of school and Dean has to let his little girl go.

"She'll do great," Sam assures him. If nothing else, Mer can pick the answers out of the teacher's brain. But she's legitimately smart, without the powers. And Sam may be teaching her to read and speak Latin on the side.

"Right up until she gets in trouble the first time," Dean snarks.

"She'll be good," Sam insists. Dean raises an eyebrow.

"She's a Winchester, Sammy." The nickname rolls off Dean's tongue like warm honey, and heat creeps up Sam's spine. If this is the kind of flirting Dean indulges in now, no wonder he hasn't been picking up people in bars. This is geared only for Sam. "Born trouble." Sam grins.

"You'll love it. Going down there to deal with anyone who tries to pull her pig-tails and got a psychic smack down. Or breaks someone's arm using one of those moves I know you're teaching her. Or the first time she takes a Bowie knife to class." Dean grins unrepentantly. Dad had put the fear of John Winchester into Dean after that particular stunt. But man, it had been fun to watch Jessica Landy and Sara Fanshaw's jaws drop.

"Yeah? Well if I have to deal with the trouble, then you get to argue with her teachers at parent-teacher's night," Dean warns.

"I'm not her parent," Sam says with a wry shake of his head. Maybe here, in their own protected space, but not in the Real World. He tries to imagine the life Dean's so casually tossed at him: the two of them arguing about what school to send Mer to, whether or not to brandish a shotgun at her first date, The Talk (God save them) and proms...

"You can be. If you want." Dean's not just talking about raising Mer. He and Whit have been doing that together long before Sam came into the picture. Dean is talking about...everything. He's taken a huge risk here, and Sam knows that if he refuses, it may never come again. So he doesn't.

Sam steps closer to Dean, breathes in the scent of him. Dean lifts his head, arches up towards Sam, silently asking. Sam obliges by bending down and pressing a soft, chaste kiss to Dean's lips.

Dean wants none of that.

A strong hand grips the back of Sam's neck and pulls him close. Dean's lips are insistent and his tongue demanding. Sam gives in with a groan, his body bonelessly falling into Dean, who stumbles back with the weight of his brother. Dean leads Sam by the lips into the bedroom, the two of them tripping on the carpet and falling to the floor.

Neither of them particularly care, too busy pulling at shirts and jeans and everything else that's in the way. This has been almost half a year in the making, the two of them dancing around each other, and for Dean that's a _lifetime_ of patience.

"C'mon, c'mon," Dean pants, pushing at Sam's jeans and boxers. He can't move, trapped under Sam like he is, and his attempts at getting Sam's clothes off are completely ineffectual. Sam huffs a laugh in Dean's ear. "Don't fucking laugh, Sammy! Help me!" It's been a very long time.

Sam pushes himself up on his elbows and uses one long arm to shimmy his pants down to his ankles, then shakes them off.

"Yesssss!" Dean hisses in triumph, and Sam's arms buckle as Dean touches him, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

"Fuck, Dean!"

"That's the idea, Sammy. Or is it Samantha today?" Sam scowls, because Dean is being insulting AND he's stopped touching.

"Call me Samantha again and see where that gets you," Sam growls. Dean shudders beneath him, the dark commanding tone going straight to his dick.

"Jesus Christ...Samantha!" Dean laughs when Sam roughly turns him over. He goes limp, offering no resistance—but also no aid—as Sam undresses him. Sam nips the back of Dean's neck in retaliation, but that only encourages him. He lets Sam manipulate his body, Sam's annoyed growls and huffs of effort turning Dean on and making him laugh. Sam stretches over Dean, the weight of him pressing Dean's smaller frame into the floor. Dean doesn't hook up with guys often, but none of the ones he has have ever managed to do this to him. Then again, he wouldn't want to do this with anyone but his Sammy.

"Sam," Dean breathes a pleading note entering his voice. "Shit, Sam! Sammy!" Sam's arm is tight around his waist and doesn't let him get any friction or relief.

"What do you want, Dean? What do you need?"

"Fuck, Sammy, touch me! Wrap your goddamned giant Sasquatch hands around me and fucking _touch me_." Sam laughs and strokes Dean lightly, his rhythm never faltering. Dean shudders and curses at Sam, the fucker caressing him just enough for it to be teasing. "SAM!"

"Sssshhhh, don't want to wake the girls." Dean whimpers, and Sam finally gives in, touching Dean just the way he knows Dean likes it. Dean trembles beneath him, encouraging Sam with every fiber of his being.

"Jesus, Sam, if you don't fuckin' DO something, I'm going to kill you! With my brain!" Sam bites down against Dean's neck, his teeth leaving bruises on the tender flesh. After that the only sounds that fill the room are the slick glide of slick skin and the harsh cries of released passion. Dean comes first, but Sam's not far behind, trembling against his brother.

Dean shrugs Sam's dead weight off of him and onto the floor. His muscles still tingle, the aftershocks of a rather spectacular orgasm coursing through him. God, he'd missed this. Missed Sam. He cradles his head on his arms, closing his eyes in contentment. He hums tunelessly when Sam starts rubbing his back, slow circles that feel spectacularly good.

"Hey Dean?" Sam murmurs, his voice fuzzy around the edges and tinged with sleep.

"Mmmmm?"

"Bed?" Dean cracks open an eye.

"If you insist, princess." Sam smacks him on the ass and Dean purrs in encouragement.

****

Sam wakes up to a pair of green eyes staring at him.

"Uh...hey, Mer." He glances quickly at Dean who's still out for the count, totally oblivious to Sam's predicament. When he looks back, Mary is still giving him a distressingly mature and piercing look. "What's up?"

"You gonna be m'Daddy?" she asks him seriously. Sam feels panic take him because what the hell?

"Um, I think you already have a Daddy," he says, pointing at Dean. A large part of him hopes she'll remember that and jump on Dean.

Mer rolls her eyes. "That's _Dada_, silly goose!"

"Oh." Sam searches around for something appropriate to say, but he's completely out of his depth. Despite his conversation with Dean, having Mer call him Dad seems wrong, somehow. "Um..." Mer crawls up and sits on his chest, her eyes solemn. She presses her hands to Sam's temples, just like the first time they met. And like then, a deep warmth brushes against Sam's soul; a feeling of happy gentleness and love, child-like and innocent, suffuses his being. It moves around in him like she's searching for something very specific. He feels it when she finds whatever it is, and her bleed-through emotions flare white-hot with joy before she withdraws. It leaves him feeling empty in a strange way.

"Atta!" she declares happily, snuggling into his chest.

"What did you say?" Sam realizes he's naked under the sheets and tries to tuck them more firmly around his body, one hand wrapped around Mer to keep her where she is.

"Atta, my Atta."

"What are you sayin' baby girl?" Dean's sleep-rough voice asks. Sam's heart flips a little, and it's so ridiculously chick-flick he's surprised Dean hasn't sensed it from a mile away and recoiled in disgust. Dean does shoot him a weirdly amused look that Sam can't completely interpret as he reaches over to rub Mer's back.

"Atta and Dada!" she says, like that explains everything. She's four, so it might. She rolls off Sam's chest and into the space between them and wriggles under the covers.

"Atta?" Sam mouths to Dean.

"She gives all the cool people a nickname. It's a thing."

"Dada?" Mer stage-whispers, her expression reflecting her intense earnestness. Dean leans in close, winking conspiratorially at Sam.

"Yeah, Mer Bear?" he stage-whispers back. She gives Dean a scornful look.

"'m not a BEAR, _Dad_!" Her scornful tone comes straight out of Dean's playbook. Sam turns his laughter into a cough.

"I dunno. You're kind of bear-like," Dean says, examining her closely. Mer scowls at him, a perfect little bitchface that did Sam proud. "Okay, okay, not a bear! You're a Mer-person." She studies Dean like she doesn't quite believe him, like he might be humoring her, and Dean puts on his best look of angelic innocence. Apparently even women who are related to Dean fall for it, because Mer's expression smoothes out almost instantly.

"Is Atta goin-going to stay? With us? Forever?" she asks Dean. Sam swallows, feels a lump in his throat, and meets Dean's eyes over Mer's head.

"I dunno, Mer. You'll have to ask him." Sam is totally unprepared for Mer's wet, emerald gaze, and it tears right through him.

"Atta?" she asks tremulously.

"Yeah, Mer?" Sam gasps, feeling light headed. There's not enough air in the room.

"Are you gonna stay? With me and Dada? And Whit and th'real Mer Bear?" Those are all the people she cares about in the whole world. Except for granpa, but he doesn't live with them and she doesn't want Atta to remember that he's around in case Atta wants to go live with him. Oh, and Gamma Mo and Uncle Bobby and Fah-Pat'ick. But they don't get him either. Atta is _theirs_ and he's supposed to stay with them. It's where he belongs. They're not right without him, and she's been waiting _her whole life_ for him to show up.

When Sam glances up, two pairs of green eyes are watching at him expectantly, waiting for his response. Sam has the feeling this might just be the most important question he ever answers. And he already knows that he never really had a choice.

"For as long as you'll have me," he vows, not taking his eyes off Dean. Dean has to look away, otherwise he'll have to hand in his guy-card. Mer cheers and throws her arms around Sam's neck.

"That means forever and ever and ever!" she declares happily, snuggling between her Atta and Dada.

Sam realizes that for the first time in months he slept through the night. No nightmares.

----

Sam stumbles into the kitchen, following his nose towards coffee.

"Mornin' Sunshine," a jovial voice greets him. Sam starts and blinks stupidly at Whitney, who offers him a cup of coffee. Sam moans his sincere appreciation.

Whitney takes in the bare chest before her, delicious skin that goes on for miles. She has a tacit agreement with Dean that he lets her catch sight of him shirtless at least twice a week, more in the summer. She'll have to workout something similar with Sam because, "Damn, your family has good genes!"

Sam splutters on his coffee, abruptly aware that he doesn't have a shirt on. Whitney is unabashedly taking in the contours of his chest, which is liberally littered with brand new love-bites. "Uh, I don't...what?" he stutters.

"You and Dean," she says coyly. He turns bright red and Whit doesn't bother to hide her smirk. "And I've met your Daddy, he's not bad lookin' either. Damn fine. Mark my words, little Mer's going to be a looker when she gets older. Dean's already planning how to keep her locked in her room till she's 50."

"Uh, yeah." Sam shifts from side to side looking anywhere but at Whitney. He'd kind of forgotten they'd have to explain...them...to her. She lets him hang for a couple of minutes before starting the conversation up again. One thing living with Dean has taught her is that with the Winchester men, it's always good to remind them where their place is right off the bat. Only way to get their respect.

"You're all flustered and discombobulated. It's cute. But don't think this means either of you is off the hook for that stunt you pulled." Whit says. Sam flushes and has the good taste to look chagrined and apologetic.

"Yeah, that was...not a good idea," Sam mumbled into his coffee cup.

"You have no idea what an understatement that is," Whit says, her words poisoned barbs that sting like a bitch. "But I'll forgive you. Eventually." Sam has no doubt that Whit will make them work for it. They stand there a little awkwardly, Sam trying to stay out of Whit's way. But this is Whitney, and she's not having any of that.

"So Dean told me about what happened with you two all those years ago." Sam looks up sharply, defensiveness written in every line of his body. He and Dean hadn't even discussed it, and for Whit to bring it up— "Whoa, down boy! I'm not judging anyone. I've seen enough shit in these past few years to realize I've got bigger problems than worrying about who anyone else is sleeping with." Sam eyes her warily, trying to figure out her angle.

"You're...okay with this?" He really, really doubts that, because he's pretty sure even he and Dean aren't that okay, no matter how much they _want_ to be.

Whitney's gaze turns sharp and probing. "Darling boy, I'm not really thinking about it, though I'm probably a sight more okay with it than you are." She puts her cup in the dishwasher before turning back to Sam, who is watching her intently. "Speaking of, you should probably deal with that. Mer will pick up on it, don't think she won't. Besides, she told me you two were destined for one another ages ago." Sam makes an indistinct sound of severe pain, which makes Whitney smirk devilishly. "Aren't many secrets kept in this house."

"Whit, would you mind fuckin' the hell off?" Dean growls from the entrance, his half-asleep child cradled to his chest. Sam can't help but stare. Dean with a kid in his arms is not something Sam would've ever imagined before, and every time he sees it he still feels a little bit floored. But in some crazy way, being a father fits his brother perfectly. Dean looks comfortable and relaxed hauling Mer around the kitchen, and Sam imagines the day he'll fit in just as comfortably. They may have accepted him, and he's accepted the position of being Mer's Atta, but he's not quite there in his own mind. Not yet.

"Darlin', if I did that, then no one in this house would be getting any sleep," Whit says with a look of pure (non)innocence. Dean snorts and sets Mer on the ground. She promptly runs out of the room with a shriek of laughter. "And watch your language around the pipsqueak," she warns. Whitney lays a kiss on Dean's cheek, which he bears with an annoyed eye roll, and follows Mer out of the room.

Sam tries to gauge Dean's mood. He really, really hates the morning after. Dean just acts like nothing has changed. (Which leads Sam down the 'inevitable' path and thoughts of 'going towards this all their lives' but that's cheesy and he really doesn't want to think about that.)

"So I was thinking," Sam starts haltingly.

"That's never a good sign," Dean sighs. He has no idea where Sammy's brain is going; he just hopes it's not towards 'we made a mistake' because he'd hate to have to kill him after Mer's grown so attached. Given him a nickname and everything. Sam glares at Dean and Dean motions for him to continue.

"If we kept doing...this," he says, motioning between him and Dean, "what would we tell Mer?"

"Do you want to keep up with...this?" Dean asks, mimicking Sam's motion. Sam's told him forever before, so you'll have to forgive Dean for being a little skeptical about post-coital promises. He tries to tell himself he can accept whatever Sam's answer is. But with a kid in the mix, all the rules are different, and as wrong as Dean knows they are, he can't let Sam go. Plus, Mer is a frickin' psychic, it isn't like they can really hide anything from her. Particularly when she gets old enough to actually understand what's going on.

Sam gives Dean's question the weight of thought it deserves. Because _yes_. Something has changed between them: Sam's grown up. Grown up and discovered that he needs Dean in a way he hadn't before. He has no idea what had changed at Stanford, or why, but it's there. Maybe this is why he'd needed to leave. To finish growing up, to become who he needed to be in order to get to this point. The only thing he's certain of—the only thing that isn't part of the jumbled mess of Jess, his clairvoyant dreams, Stanford, and the demon—is the unflagging anchor that is Dean. Sam will bet money Dean had stopped by Stanford to check up on him every semester. There were time Sam would swear he could feel Dean's presence, something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck and sent shivers down his spine.

"I do." Sam finds himself pressed against the refrigerator, Dean's mouth hot against his. Sam lets Dean slip a knee between his legs, sliding down so they're the same height. They make out with all the sloppy enthusiasm of teenagers.

"So what are we gonna tell Mer?" Sam whispers into Dean's lips. Den pulls back a little, pupils wide, looking annoyed.

"We don't have to tell her anything. She'll work it out on her own."

"I don't think that's healthy, Dean. Or responsible."

"I don't think that's healthy, Dean," Dean mimics in a high pitched voice. "Oh, and if you see my balls, ask if my dick ran away at the same time."

"Jerk," Sam mumbles, and Dean kisses him again.

"Eeeeeewwwww, they're kissing! DADDIES SHARIN' BOY COOTIES!" Mer shrieks delightedly from the den.


	12. Book One: Chapter 12

If Mer smiles any wider her face is going to freeze that way. Funny thing is, when Dean tells her that, her smile just _grows_. She's also got this aura of smugness around her that's totally unbecoming of a four-year-old.

Even Whit's anger at them thaws in the face of Mer's sheer _delight_ in the newest aspect of their relationship. (Sam is absolutely positively NOT CONTEMPLATING what Mer could possibly know about their...situation. He's going to live in ignorant bliss for as long as possible.)

But they're still not back to an even keel when Dean announces their next job and doesn't even question that Mer is going with them.

Dean gets a phone call, frowns, and goes outside to take it, which is odd enough that Sam worries about it. Dean paces around the back yard, head down and focused. Sam pings him once, which startles Dean so badly he fumbles the phone. The distracted smile he throws Sam's way is not reassuring in the least.

"Hey, Miracle Mer," Sam calls out, drying the dishes and staring at Dean out the window.

"Yeah?" Mer answers, coming up and leaning against Sam's leg.

"Who's your Dad talking to?" Mer looks at him with a decidedly unimpressed look, one she must have borrowed from Missouri. "What?"

"Why're you askin' ME?" she demands.

"Uh. I don't—"

"Dada says people has t'learn things yourself. Cuz it's the only way you...um." Mer's eyes squinch up as she thinks about what piece of advice Dean had imparted to her. Sam tries to keep his amusement to himself. "Well, you gotta do it. Yourself."

"Yeah?" Sam laughs, and Mer glares at him for making fun of her. He holds up his hands in supplication. "So how do I do that?"

"Dunno," Mer says breezily and makes a break for it. Sam darts forward and hauls her up off the ground, giggling the whole time.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" Sam sing-songs, finding her ticklish spots.

"ATTA!" she yells, laughing and squirming in his arms. "STOPPIT!"

"Not until you tell me how to do it!" he bargains, poking her ribs.

"I dunno I dunno I dunno!" Mer avows, but she's a lying liar who lies a lot. Sam flips her upside down, and she squeals, clutching his shirt until she's sure he won't drop her. "ATTA!" She swings free, hair tumbling down. She cheers and starts rocking back and forth, swinging in Sam's grip.

"Tell me, Mer-Bear, otherwise the tickle monster comes back!" Sam threatens. He carefully wraps his power around her to help bolster her, then twists his free hand into a claw. Mer rolls her eyes and, still upside down, folds her arms across her chest.

"Please. I banished the tickle monster when I was _three_!" Sam has to concentrate on lowering Mer to the floor before he drops her because he's laughing so hard. Only a Winchester.

"Did I miss something?" Dean asks dryly, but his eyes are soft as he takes the two of them in. God, when the fuck did his life turn into this?

"Atta's trying to spy on you," Mer rats Sam out with a flutter of her eyelashes and a wide smile.

"What! That's not true!" Sam protests, glaring at her. They're supposed to be buddies. He gathers up all his betrayal and projects it out to her. From the way Dean's mouth twitches, he broadcast it pretty wide. Mer's face falls into unimpressed disbelief before her eyes go big, and watery, and her lip trembles. Oh shit.

Mer leans into him, and Sam unconsciously mirrors her movement. He can see big, fat crocodile tears gathering in her eyes.

"Atta?" Mer says.

"Yeah, Mer." He feels like he's being marched towards a firing squad.

"You thought a bad word!" She raps him over the head and runs away while he's too stunned to react. Dean's got tears coming out of his eyes he's laughing so hard, doubled over and clutching his stomach. Bastard.

"ATTA! SWEARS!" Mer censures from the other room. That just makes Dean laugh harder. Sam glares at him and enacts a plan that involves tackling Dean to the floor and finding HIS ticklish spots. Sam is fairly sure Dean didn't banish the tickle monster when _he_ was three.

"Sam! Stoppit! GET OFF ME!" Dean squirms beneath him, and it has quite the effect on Sam. Dean feels it and smirks, deliberately arching up into Sam to try and distract him. Before it can go too far, Mer comes flying back in the room and parks herself on Dean's chest.

"Tickle Dada!" she crows, and unerringly finds the spot right under Dean's armpits that make him jerk and emit a strangled, desperate laugh. Sam and Mer coordinate their attacks, and soon Dean's reduced to gasping pleas for mercy interspersed by uncontrollable laughter. Mer goes for Dean's feet at some point, but Sam quickly puts a stop to that lest Dean accidentally kick her.

They're so wrapped up in each other that they never notice when Whit gets home, or the pictures she takes until a framed photo appears on their wall the next day.

----

Sam would much rather be at home playing tickle monster than...here. Turns out Dean's suspicious call was from and old 'friend.' Of the female variety. Who has Dean's most current number. Yeah, Sam can tell there's something up with this whole situation, something Dean isn't telling him. Plus, Dean won't meet his eyes, which is almost as good as a confession.

There was never any question of Mer not coming with them. They're all still healing from the faith healer incident, and the thought of leaving Mer behind fills them both with distaste. The one time Sam had thought about it, Mer had looked at Sam with wide, wet eyes.

When Dean announces they're going to visit Cassie and Mer claps in delight, Sam's suspicions deepen. But he holds his peace until they get to where they're going. No sense starting unnecessary trouble. This Cassie person could be anyone.

Cassie turns out to be gorgeous (naturally), and has slept with Dean (naturally), and is his ex. Unnaturally. A fact that Dean conveniently forgot to mention and Sam pieced together based on snippy comments and the way Dean and Cassie react to one another. Dean called Sarah Windham his girlfriend once in seventh grade. She summarily dumped him for Chaz Cooper three days later. After that no woman was ever graced with that title, most don't ever get a second date. From the pot shots Dean and Cassie take at one another, they knew each other longer than a first date. Or a second.

Sam would really have no problem with Cassie except Mer LOVES her. Really really loves her. She tells Cassie everything that's happened since the last time they saw each other, which Sam surmises has been about a year. And Mer invites Cassie to her birthday party, which Mer is convinced will feature a pony. (No. There will be no pony. But that's not the point.)

Sam watches Cassie pick Mer up with effortless ease, settling the girl on her hip and talking about getting Mer a haircut and some new clothes. It raises Sam's hackles, which is ridiculous because Whit does this all the time but that's...that's different, somehow. So is the way Dean watches the two of them together, with hooded eyes and pursed lips. Sam can read Dean clearly:

He sees Dean and Cassie setting up house somewhere. Mer calling Cassie Mom. Siblings for Mer, fat little babies with beautiful caramel skin and green eyes. A big dog, gentle with the kids and vicious to any threats. As much as Dean disparages normal, it looks good on him. Easy. _Acceptable_.

Sam _hates_ Cassie, and she doesn't particularly care for him. By mutual agreement—and after one viciously barbed 'conversation'—they avoid being alone together. Sam feels like crap because Mer gets really quiet when Sam and Cassie get near each other, no doubt picking up on their animosity. Her eyes dart between the two of them like she's watching a tennis match. Sam tries to get her to come to him, but she simply shakes her head and goes to find Dean.

Cassie smirks at Sam, who takes the high road and leaves the room.

----

One night, Dean drags Sam outside and sits them down on the porch, a six-pack between them. Sam doesn't want to drink, but Dean is an insistent fucker, so he finally accepts the beer.

"I was going to ask her to marry me," Dean admits later, a half-full bottle of beer dangling between his fingers. Fuck that hurts. It shouldn't. He'd had Jess and had planned to marry her. But even then...Dean's not the kind of person to let someone in easily. Not enough to make them family. In Sam's visions of the future, Dean was always there, lurking in the background in spite of everything else going on in Sam's life. And Sam had almost lost him. And Mer, before he'd even known she existed.

Sam puts his beer down and pulls Dean's head around so they can kiss, harsh and frantic. He wants to remind Dean that Cassie may have left, but Sam's here to stay. No more running, no more uncertainty. Sam has cast his lot with Dean and Mer, and that's the way it's going to be. Forever and ever. Done. Mer got it right, they just weren't listening.

The kiss gets deeper and more involved, Dean moaning low in the back of his throat and tangling his fingers in Sam's hair. They lose themselves, just for a minute, because they both trust Mer to keep Cassie away from them and they need this. For all Sam wants to talk to her about it, Mer seems to have a firmer grasp of their situation than Sam or Dean, which is nice because at least someone understands this. But maybe they don't need to understand; maybe they just need to be.

"Could you stop thinking so loudly?" Dean pulls away to grouse. Sam rolls his eyes and yanks Dean into another kiss, this time letting go of everything. He sinks into Dean, surrounding himself completely, lets his hedonistic side come out to play. Dean laughs against his mouth, warm puffs of air that caress Sam's skin.

Before anything can get too hot and heavy, Mer yells for them to come inside and play Candy Land.

When he sees Mer settled in Cassie's lap explaining why she chose the yellow person over the green and blue, Sam doesn't feel the familiar surge enmity. He feels...indulgent. Mer looks up at him with a wide smile and he wonders if Cassie knows what she lost.

----

They try to keep Mer as far away from the action as possible, but it's hard to do when the spirit comes right up to your doorstep. The giant black truck revs its engine and the lights flicker. Dean glances at Sam, the two of them trying to figure out the best way to keep Mer safe, when she breaks free of Cassie's hold and throws the front door open wide.

"Mer!" Dean yells, sprinting after her. He can see her small frame silhouetted against the truck's bright floodlights. He stops right behind her, blinking into the bright light, but something tells him not to yank her away.

"Go away," Mer yells at the truck. "We don't like you!" The truck growls and jerks forward. Mer steps outside and crosses her arms, Dean right at her back. Sam joins Dean, their shoulder brushing, leaving Cassie and her mom huddled together inside. They both feel Mer's power ghost over their skin, and the smell of roses and lavender seems to permeate the air.

"You are not welcome here." Mer's voice comes out deep and powerful: not a child's tone at all. Dean blindly reaches for Sam's hand. There's a part of him that clenches every time Mer does something like this, that fears one day she won't come back. The truck spins its tires out, throwing up chunks of sod.

"You are not welcome here," Mere repeats, sounding almost bored. The truck backs up, tires squealing. For a hopeful second, Sam thinks its going to leave. Instead it spins its tires, gathering momentum until it lurches forward, racing towards them at top speed. Mer takes one more step towards it and holds out one hand. "YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!"

Sam and Dean both reach for Mer, as if they could pull her out of the way before the car crashed into the house or their bodies would serve as enough protection to save her, but...when they look up, the car has disappeared, the only sign it was ever there tire tracks on the grass.

"He was not a nice man," Mer grumbles, looking put out. Dean blinks at her.

"No," he agrees, voice choked. "No, he wasn't." Mer looks up and smiles brilliantly at him.

"The 'Pala will take him." And with that cryptic statement, she wiggles away and runs inside to make sure Cassie knows they can play Candy Land some more, because the mean ghost won't be coming back.

"Fuck," Dean gasps, sitting down heavily on the porch his knees suddenly too weak to support himself. Sam sits down next to him, belatedly realizing they're still holding hands.

----

Cassie and her mom act differently around Mer after that. Sam doesn't know how much Cassie knew of Mer's abilities, but Mer spooked her. She still uses all the same words, smiles at Mer's enthusiasm, picks her up and swings her around. But there's a hesitancy there now. The nicknames aren't as light hearted, the smiles are a moment too late in coming, she pauses before reaching out to Mer.

Sam can feel how much it affects Mer. Usually open and free with her own emotions, Mer plays her cards close to the chest. She gradually starts drifting away from Cassie, opting to read on her own instead of playing games, or snuggling with Dean and Sam when they're home. By the time they banish the ghost, Dean pitting the Impala's engine against the supernatural, they're all ready to go home. Dean won't say it out loud, but he really wants to see Whit and give her a huge hug for being so awesome.

When they leave, Dean lets out a long breath and grins. Sam's in the passenger seat and Mer's in the back, waving goodbye to Cassie. They're all together, safe, and relatively unscathed. Going home. Home.

He wouldn't trade what he has now for the world.

****

When they get home, the first thing Mer does is run to tell Whitney everything that happened, and show her all of the clothes and toys Cassie bought her before The Break Up (as Dean calls it in his head without the least bit of irony). Dean ignores the speculative looks Whit throws him. Sam tries to emulate Dean, but he feels himself shifting uncomfortably every time her gaze settles on him. She's damn intense when she wants to be. Sam tries to hide behind the refrigerator door, but it only takes so long to get the orange juice

"Sammy," Dean says, and pokes him in the head. Sam swats at his hand and glares. "Sa-ammy!" Dean pokes him in the chest, the touch turning into a brief caress.

"WHAT, Dean?" Sam sighs, standing up with the orange juice like a shield in front of him. Dean bounces in front of him. Blocking his way to the glasses. Dean grins at him and wiggles his eyebrows. Sam huffs in annoyance. They're at an impasse for the moment, Dean just looking at him expectantly and Sam really wanting a glass. "Can I help you?" Dean seems to deflate a little and stomps off, and Sam can't figure out what's going on. But he doesn't want orange juice anymore. And Whit's still looking at him suspiciously.

The whole incident niggles at Sam because he's obviously missing something. He doesn't realize what's going on until he's in the shower, loosely fisting his dick, and realizes they haven't had sex in _ages_. Okay, more like a week, but for newly reawakened libidos and Dean, that's a long, long time. No wonder Dean's acting like a twelve-year-old.

Luckily, this is a condition easily—and pleasantly—resolved. He rummages in his dop kit and pulls out a travel-size tube of lube. Since he's also regressed to being twelve, Sam snickers at the thought of travel lube—sized for the get-up-and-go man. He stifles his moan as his fingers slide inside; it really has been a while. Dean better appreciate this.

No sooner has the though crossed his mind than the bathroom door shakes under Dean's fist.

"Sammy! Time's up, I wanna brush my teeth!"

"You were in here longer than me, Dean!" Sam calls back. Dean mumbles something vicious and gruff, which Sam ignores in favor of fitting more fingers in his ass. He briefly considers finishing himself off because that would serve Dean right after the way he's been acting and the whole _not saying anything_, but that would be kind of like cutting off his nose to spite his face.

Dean's sprawled shirtless on the bed, hands tucked under his head, when Sam steps out of the bathroom. Dean spares a mildly appreciative glance for the well-muscled chest on display before he sighs and stares up at the ceiling. Wow, they really need to have sex immediately because Dean's not actively trying to seduce a nearly-naked Sam which is just _wrong_ and means this whole no-sex thing has hit critical mass without either of them realizing.

Sam walks over to the bed, drops his towel on the floor, and straddles Dean.

"Sammy, what the--" Dean trails off when Sam sticks his hands down Dean's loose pants, wraps one of his gargantuan hands around Dean's cock and tugs. Two pulls and Dean's panting, hips moving in time with the motion of Sam's hand. Sam yanks Dean's pants off and tosses them over his shoulder. Dean pushes up on his arms, watching Sam hungrily. Sam crawls on the bed, intent evident in every move his makes. He straddles Dean, and guides him into place, and sinks down with a satisfied sigh.

"**Christ,"** Dean groans reverently. Sam ignores Dean and starts moving, shifting his hips until Dean is brushing his sweet spot. Perfect. He sets a pace that feels good to him, enjoying the feeling of Dean sliding in and out of him

"God, S-_Sam_!" Dean groans, clutching at Sam's hips. Sam spares a grin in Dean's direction and moves his hands so he's braced against Dean's chest, one hand over his heart. Dean keeps his touch light and encouraging, enjoying Sam being in charge. He grins up at Sam, wide and slightly lascivious. He loves this.

Sam clenches his muscles and Dean's eyes roll in the back of his head, mouth hanging opening. His tongue darts out to wet dry lips and Sam leans down to kiss him. Dean returns the kiss enthusiastically, lets his tongue roam around Sam's mouth until he whimpers, hips jerking arrhythmically.

Dean rolls them over, but Sam's too far gone to care that the rules of his game have changed. As long as the end result is the same, it's all good to him. He arches back, grabs the headboard, and moves his body sinuously against Dean's.

Dean grunts and pulls one of Sam's freakishly long legs over his shoulder. He presses a kiss to the knee and knows Sam will really feel this in the morning—but it's going to be so good tonight he'll never even notice.

"Fuck, you're tight," Dean grunts, hips snapping forward. He shifts the angle until he feels Sam quiver and gasp beneath him. And then he drives in again and again and again.

"Dean!" Sam growls, his voice dropping an entire register, and it makes Dean's eyes roll back. Sam surges up and rakes his teeth down the side of Dean's neck. He hooks his free leg around Dean's back and uses it to push him harder, faster. He can feel the burn and stretch in his ass and it feels amazing.

"Come on, Sammy," Dean challenges, wrapping his hand around Sam's dick. "Bet I can get you off first." Sam opens his eyes and grins lazily.

"Oh yeah?" He tightens his inner muscles, his entire body focused on trapping Dean's cock inside his body.

"Shiii-aaaaaaahh!" Dean gurgle-moans. His grip on Sam's cock tightens in response to his complete and utter brain freeze, which makes Sam accidentally bite his tongue because he was _so close_ to coming.

"Over," Sam pants when he can think again. "Over, over, come on, come on!" Dean sits back and helps Sam flip. Almost before Sam gets his hands and knees under him, Dean slams back in. It drives Sam forward, and he has to brace himself against the wall. It's hot, watching the muscles of Sam's back bunch and shift as Dean slides in and out.

Sam tries to move with Dean's rhythm, but it takes too much concentration and what little focus he has is spent staying steady, so Sam just braces himself and holds on for the ride. Dean palms his dick and fondles his balls, and Sam fights to hold on, to hold out.

"Nah-ah, Sammy," Dean hisses in his ear. Sam can feel the slick slide of Dean's chest against his back. "Don't hold out on me." Dean brings his hand down on Sam's ass with a resounding crack, and Sam loses it.

He yells into his pillow and comes all over Dean's hand. He barely manages to remain upright for Dean to get himself off. It doesn't take long, just a few rough thrusts. Dean's almost silent when he comes, but Sam can feel it in the way his fingers clench around Sam's hips, the strain of his body against Sam's back. Dean collapses over Sam, twitching with pleasure, and Sam finally lets himself fall. Dean spreads over him like a very heavy blanket.

"Fuck," Sam pants. He couldn't move right now if you paid him, even with Dean crushing the air out of him.

"Good summary," Dean mumbles with a laugh. He kisses Sam's shoulder, then bites down on it because he can. Sam grunts and shakes, telling Dean to get off. Dean rolls over onto his side of the bed and sprawls out, grinning like he's just been laid. Sam, ever the boy scout, retrieves a couple of wet wipes from his side table, and cleans Dean up.

"Aw, honey, you're so good to me," Dean says sleepily. He's just gone enough that he thinks nothing of running his fingers gently through Sam's hair, his thumb sweeping over the swell of Sam's cheekbones.

"You don't deserve it," Sam mutters, but he doesn't mean it. Sam makes Dean pull his boxers on (a new rule after Mer had had a nightmare and they'd both run out naked and armed to check on her; Whit had been completely worthless for days after) before he climbs under the covers and wraps himself around Dean.

They fall asleep between one breath and the next, more relaxed than they have been in a very long time.

"Dada? Atta?" Dean pulls his eyes open not two hours after they'd fallen asleep and sees his daughter, clutching Mer Bear, standing at the end of the bed.

"Mer? Whass wrong?" he mumbles. Sam moans and tries to hide himself under Dean.

"I don't feel good," Mer says, then proceeds to throw up all over the floor.

****

"Saaaaaaaam," Dean warns into his pillow. He swats at whatever is tickling the back of his neck.

"Deeeeaaaannnn," Sam drawls. Oh God. He can _hear_ the leer in Sam's voice. He has created a monster. A sex-crazed, handsy, insatiable monster. Sam's hot, wet tongue traces the knobs of Dean's spine. It feels nice, and Dean would happily fall asleep to this, except one of Sam's hands slips into his sleep pants and cups his ass.

"Sam!" Dean growls, trying to squirm away from Sam's tongue. "Go sleep in your own bed!"

"This IS my bed," Sam pouts. He rubs his erection against Dean's hip, slinging a leg over Dean's thighs. His hands run restlessly over Dean's half-naked body. Sam laughs and nips at Dean's shoulder. "Come on, Deanie. Wanna fuck!"

Sam thinks he might have won when Dean rolls over on his side to face him. He thinks he's going to get laid right up until the second Dean shoves him off the bed.

"Hey!" Sam protests. Dean's head appears above him, looking like he's disembodied where the bed hides his nakedness from Sam's eyes.

"Next time, YOU get to sit up with the sick kid!" Dean growls, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Mer had picked up the flu from somewhere, just in time for Whit to gleefully leave for a retreat with some of her coworkers. Sam and Dean had traded nights staying up to watch Mer puke up whatever they'd managed to get her to eat; her fever finally broke yesterday, but you can never be too careful about these things. Last night, Dean had pulled the short straw and sat up with her, and now he is not—God help him he has _never_ said this before and _never_ will again—in the mood for sex.

"I did!" Sam protests, sulking. "Yesterday." He looks down at the erection tenting his pants with sad eyes.

"Jesus Christ," Dean groans, collapsing against the bed. Sam lets out a sad, pathetic sigh of capitulation. Dean hates himself for being such a goddamed pushover. He used to be better than this. "Fine. Get your giant ass up here, I'll jerk you off." Sam grins and bounces to his feet.

"Aw, honey. You're such a good little wifey!" Sam says, pinning Dean to the bed and licking a long stripe up Dean's neck and to his ear.

"Oh, don't worry, sweetheart," Dean says with faux innocence. "You and your mouth will be paying me back in the morning."

Sam has a snarky comeback on the tip of his tongue when a vision rips through him. It's so real he can taste the car exhaust. He's trapped in a car, the locks won't open. The last think he sees as he dies are headlights through the garage door windows.

"Sam?" Dean yells. Sam's eyes move under his eyelids and his breathing is harsh, like the asthma attack Joey Kanan had at one of Mer's play dates. "Sammy!" Dean tilts Sam's head back to open his airways and tries to get a response out of him. "Come on, Sam, not today."

Dean's head snaps up when Mer's frightened scream echoes through the house, and he's suddenly torn between Sammy and Mer.

Sam makes the decision for him when he gasps awake, eyes lucid. He rolls over and heaves, and Dean barely has time to grab the trash can from the bedside table before Sam's stomach rebels.

"Sam—"

"I'm okay. Help Mer." Dean puts the trash can within easy reach before sprinting down the hall to Mer's room.

She looks absolutely miserable. Her nose is red from the flu and she's crying, huddled against her headboard. She looks pale as a ghost.

"Hey, Mer-Bear, you have a bad dream?" Dean asks gently. She crawls into his arms, trembling and scared and sniffling. "It's okay, baby girl. You're okay." She doesn't talk, just buries her head in his shoulder and clings to him. Dean grabs the stuffed Mer Bear off the bed and carries them both to his room, mentally cursing his luck that Whit's gone for the weekend.

By the time they get back, Sam's cleaned himself up and emptied the trash. He looks shaken, but he's no longer pale.

"She okay?" he asks, rubbing Mer's back as Dean carefully settles them on the bed. Mer anchors herself firmly to Dean's chest, but she turns her head so she can see Sam. "You okay, Seahorse?" Mer lets out a hiccuping laugh at her newest nickname, which makes Dean and Sam crack a smile.

"You had a bad dream, Atta," Mer whispers. Sam swallows and wipes the tear tracks off her cheeks.

"Yeah, but it's over now," Sam assures her. Mer frowns.

"I don't think so." Dean and Sam share an alarmed look.

"What's that mean, Mer?" Dean asks. Mer closes her eyes and buries her face in Dean's chest, shaking her head. Dean shakes her gently to get her attention. "Mary? I need you to talk to me." Mer trembles, making small, frightened noises. Sam looks guilty and miserable, like he could stop whatever's going on with Mer.

"Issa bad man," she finally whispers. "I don't like him." Mer voice comes out hoarse from coughing, and they can hear the rattling sound of every breath she takes.

"What man?" Sam asks, but nothing they say or do can get Mer to talk again.

----

"It really was a vision," Sam reports the next day. He ran the car plate through a police contact and found out the man who owned it had died last night of an apparent suicide. This is the first time he's had a vision of something that didn't directly pertain to him.

"Okay. So what do we do?" Dean wonders aloud. Sam has no idea, because Mer refuses to talk about last night. Neither of them can get any information about the 'bad man.' The only man in Sam's vision had been the one who died, and he's sure that isn't who Mer is talking about.

The next night, Sam has another vision, this time of a man being decapitated via window. This vision is more powerful, more specific, and there's something sinister lurking in the shadows. It's enough for them to call Whit home early and drop Mer off with Finn's parents, pleading a family emergency. They're just crossing the border from Illinois to Indiana when Sam's vision swims and a migraine sets in. The man's decapitation plays on a loop for the last six hours of the drive, and it physically hurts for Sam to open his eyes.

When the pain and the images abruptly stop, Sam knows they're too late. Tuning the police scanner, they eventually pick up a suspected murder, head found on the street. Even though Sam looks like an extra from a zombie movie they head straight to the address.

The way Sam's eyes widen and his lips press together tells Dean this is the place more clearly than words. They listen to the police chatter, enough for Sam to confirm the police report matches what he saw. Dean really doesn't like how this is panning out.

----

When the visions start back up the next day, Dean's ready to smite a bitch. Sam hasn't eaten anything in two days—stomach can't keep anything down due to the constant migraines. Luckily, their research into the cursed Miller family has given them all the information they need. Max, the first victim's son and the second victim's nephew, has been using freaky mind powers to kill the people who abused him for years. Or stood by and watched it happen, in the case of the stepmom, soon to be victim number three.

While Dean understands that sentiment—he really, really does—freaky mind powers are only okay when it's Sam or Mer using them. Other people need to stay the hell away from the supernatural mojo. No matter what Sam says, Dean really doubts this Max kid would've turned homicidal without the telekinesis.

"This has got to be an all new low for us," Sam grumbles, pulling at his cassock. Dean glances over at him and leers; Sam is surprisingly hot in his priest's garb.

"Nah, I think you've definitely been lower," Dean says in a downright lascivious tone of voice. Sam glares at him—because come _on_, they're supposed to be priests!—but he can't help the warm flush of arousal that flows through him at the look in Dean's eyes.

"Dean," Sam warns, but it comes out a little breathless. Dean opens his mouth, but the door swings open, saving him from having to answer.

Sam stares mutely at the kid who opened the door. Max, eyes red-rimmed and defiant, glances between the two of them. Sam doesn't know where to start. 'Hi, I've had dreams about you, don't kill your stepmom' doesn't seem like the best opening line. He glances at his brother, who stares at Max with a wide, indiscernible look on his face.

Dean pales and resists the urge to step back as the boy's anguish and desperation hits him like a 2x4. Christ, this kid's at the end of his rope, filled with turmoil and incredibly angry. Not just at the people who are supposed to be his parents, but at himself for letting it happen.

"What?" Max demands curtly, crossing his arms protectively.

"Ah, I'm—I'm Dean. This is Sam," Dean babbles. He can feel Sam's incredulous stare, but he couldn't muster up a convincing lie to save his life right now. Max's emotions are too raw, coming through too clearly for him to ignore, deep and dark. Max is one traumatized, angry young man.

"We're new junior priests over at St. Augustine's. May we come in?" Sam picks up with an ingratiating smile.

"Max, who is it?" a woman's voice calls. Max grudgingly steps aside to let them in. Dean can feel how volatile the boy is; he doesn't think their presence is going to stop Sam's vision, not the way Max is primed to explode.

"Mrs. Miller?" Sam asks, taking point since Dean seems to have been rendered mute. Sam has a worrying moment where he wonders if Max may have done that, but decides he's just being paranoid.

"Yes?"

"We're from St. Augustine's. We heard about your recent losses and through you and your son could use a sympathetic ear."

"Oh, that's very kind of you," Mrs. Miller said, her eyes tearing up. "I just...it's been difficult. For both of us."

She lays a hand on Max's arm, but he twists away and sneers at her, "You don't speak for me."

"Max—"

"You don't speak for me! You've _never_ spoken for me! Every time, you just stood there and let them—"

"Max, please!" Mrs. Miller says frantically, her eyes skittering to Sam and Dean, then turning pleading when she looks back at Max. The furniture in the room starts to shake. Behind them, Dean catches sight of the knife on the chopping block slowly turn and point towards their little group in the hall.

"Uh, Max, maybe we should step outside and talk about this," Dean offers, trying to appear as sympathetic as possible.

"No!" The house shakes.

"Max—" Mrs. Miller gets thrown into the wall, her head cracking the plaster. Max turns to them, anger turning his face red and his eyes wild.

"You're not priests," he accuses. Dean jerks as the gun Velcroed to his priest's robe rips free and flies into Max's hand. Max stares at the weapon in surprise, like he hadn't consciously meant to do that, before snapping together and pointing it at Dean. "Who are you?"

"I saw you do it," Sam says, keeping his voice low and even. Dean twitches when the gun swings towards Sam, but he stays still. "I saw you kill your dad and your uncle before it happened."

"What?" The gun wavers slightly. Mrs. Miller moans and jerks on the floor.

"I'm having visions, Max. About you." The gun drops a few inches. Sam is totally getting a blow job when they get home if he can talk the kid down without getting either of them shot.

"You're crazy," Max says, but his voice trembles and he doesn't sound sure. Dean feels a shift in Max's emotions and _nudges_ Sam, who gives him an almost imperceptible nod.

"So, you weren't gonna launch a knife at your stepmom before we got here?" Sam asks. Max blinks and looks startled; the gun slips down a little lower. A few more inches and they'll be able to safely disarm him.

"No." And just like that, all the headway they made is gone. Max points the gun right at Sam's heart. "That's impossible!"

"Is it that hard to believe, Max?" Sam says, eyes on the gun. "Look what you can do. Max, I was drawn here, alright? I think I'm here to help you." Sam is emitting a field of calm and assurance, and even though he knows it's there, even Dean feels himself responding. He watches the panic slip out of Max's stance, his muscles relaxing and his breathing evening out. But the gun stays steady.

"I can't—no one can help me."

"I can," Sam says earnestly, and Dean can tell Max wants to believe him. "We can."

"Do you know what it's like?" Max demands. "He _hated_ me. I could see it, every time he looked at me. Every time he hit me in places where no one could see. He blamed me for everything. For his job, for his life, for my mom's death. How can that be okay?"

"Your mom's death?" Sam asks, and a trill of fear breaks through Sam's enforced calm. Max steps back and Sam controls his emotions, once again laying a blanket of calm over them. Dean watches Mrs. Miller out of the corner of his eye, starting to wake up, and wills her to stay the fuck down.

"Because she died in my nursery. While I was asleep in my crib. As if that makes it my fault! I was six months old!"

"She died in your nursery?" Dean asks, shocked into speech. Max jerks, like he'd forgotten Dean was there, but he doesn't move the gun from Sam's chest.

"Yeah. There was a fire. And he'd get drunk and babble on like she died in some insane way. He said that she burned up. Pinned to the ceiling. Stop asking questions!" Max yells, brandishing the gun at Sam. His finger strays perilously close to the trigger.

"Listen to me, Max. What your dad said about what happened to your mom—it's real. All of it. It happened to my mom, too," Sam says excitedly, long arms waving everywhere without regard to the twitchy, crazy person with freaky mind powers _pointing a gun at him._ "Exactly the same-my nursery, my crib. My dad saw her on the ceiling. You and I must be connected in some way." Dean grits his teeth. All he wants to do is step between Sam and Max, and it takes everything in him to stay put. If Sam would just _stop gesturing._

"You're insane," Max says, but he's shaking and unsure.

"It's true," Dean says softly, trying to draw Max's attention to him. "I was four. I remember the fire. We're looking for the bastard that killed her. Have been for twenty years. Let us help you." For a second, he thinks Max is going to go for it. Max lowers the gun and smiles a little; Dean breathes out his relief. Sam grins, dimples showing through.

"I'm sorry." Sam goes flying into a coat closet, a heavy desk moving of its own volition in front of the door. Dean goes sailing through the window, glass falling all around him. He feels a piece embed itself in his shoulder, burning as it cuts through the muscle.

"Max!" Sam yells, pounding on the door. "Don't do this!" Sam doubles over as a vision assaults him. Max yelling at Mrs. Miller, accusing her, shooting her in the chest moment before Dean bursts through the front door, only to be shot through the heart. Reset. This time, he gets shot through the head. Then the chest, where he dies slowly choking on his own blood. Reset. Max and Dean both die. Reset. Reset. Reset. Rage builds in Sam and something in him _gives_.

Energy bursts forth and the closet door and desk shatter. Sam staggers, exhausted, but it's enough to startle Max into turning around, taking the attention from Mrs. Miller. Dean bursts through the front door, bleeding and bruised. Max spins around, gun cocked, and that same draining burst of energy jerks the gun up. The shot buries itself in the door frame. Sam sags to his knees, feeling dizzy and wrecked.

"Max," Dean warns, glancing between Max and Sam. "Come on, man. This isn't the answer."

"You know what?" Max asks, his voice eerily blank. "You're right."

Max shoots himself in the head before any of them can stop him. Dean stares at the bright splash of red on the walls for a moment before Sam tries to get up and finds he doesn't have the strength to stand. Dean catches him and gently guides Sammy to the ground. He frowns at the small trickle of blood coming out of Sam's nose. Dean uses his shirt to wipe it away and Sam's eyes flutter open.

"When were you gonna tell me about that little trick?" Dean asks, checking Sam's pupils. Despite the lightness of his words, Sam can sense how truly freaked out Dean is, how much he doesn't like Sam's new power.

"Didn't know," Sam mumbles, his eyes drooping. Dean's worry spikes, and Sam wants to tell Dean that it's okay. He's still Sammy, still Dean's.

"Max? MAX! Oh God!"

Dean and Sam watch Mrs. Miller clutch her stepson's lifeless body, tears spilling down her cheeks. Dean meanly wonders if she feels guilty for standing by while her husband and brother-in-law beat the shit out of a defenseless kid.


	13. Book One: Chapter 13

Dean enjoys the feel of the air flowing through the car, ruffling his hair and cooling his skin. Sammy sleeps in the seat beside him, drooling on the window. Dean would wake him up because hello, upholstery, but Sam has been sleeping for the better part of twenty-four hours. His new mind trick really took it out of him. Dean sends the thought skittering away because _not dealing with it._

Dean's cellphone rings, and the showtune of the week is 'Foxy Roxy Hart.'

"Winchester airlines, this is your captain speaking," Dean answers. The snort at the other end tells him he's talking to Whit.

"You better be flying your fine ass back home, _Captain_ Winchester," Whit says in lieu of a civilized greeting.

"Mer tell you who she wanted at her party?" Dean asks, trying not to be offended that Whit thinks he'd miss his kid's fifth birthday. Dean frowns. "Whit? Whitney?"

"No one," Whit says with a sigh. Dean imagines she's rubbing her eyebrow like she always does when she's faced with the particularly stubborn qualities of the Winchester clan.

"What do you mean 'no one?' What about Finn? Or Jer? Come on, not even Lissa? What about that weird kid—the one with the moon boots."

"Nope. She wants you, me, Sam, John if you can swing it, Bobby and Missouri if they're willing to come up."

"You can't be serious," Dean says in disbelief.

"Trust me, I couldn't make this up if I tried. Not if it's Mer."

"What's the theme?" Dean asks, trying to wrap his mind around this, because he's half convinced Mer is going to grow up to be a party planner. Her third birthday she'd insisted that everything be X-Men and SpongeBob themed. She wanted a Wolverine cake, SpongBob plates, Magneto napkins, Patrick balloons, and assorted X-Men invitations. And God help them if they tried to steer her towards one show or the other. Last year, she'd wanted sparkles. Dean shudders just remembering. He'd still been shaking glitter out of his hair two months after the fact; it made him miss the incongruity of Professor X sitting next to a depressed looking squid.

"Whitney!" Dean yells.

"She doesn't have an opinion!" Whit yells back.

"Mother fuck—" Dean hangs up and guns the engine.

"Wha-ha?" Sam mumbles, starting awake. "Dean?"

"Welcome back to the world, Sammy."

"What happened?" Dean feels Sam brush against him, but he's not in the mood. He's had his fill of freak powers for the week. "Dean?" Sam's concern washes over him, and Dean forces himself to relax.

"Nothin'." Sam does not believe him. "Mer's birthday is next week." Sam sits straight up, eyes wide.

"What? Do we have a cake? Decorations? Oh shit, we need presents! What should we get? What does she want? DEAN!"

"Jesus, Sammy, calm the fuck down!" Dean grins in spite of himself, because Sam panics so awesomely. Dean slows down on the deserted high way and pulls Sam into a sloppy kiss.

"That's—yeah. Okay," Sam agrees, blinking at Dean.

"She's five, Sam. They have entire stores dedicated to making five-year-olds deliriously happy."

"Our five-year-old has the reading comprehension of a middle schooler," Sam points out, just to be contrary.

Dean doesn't respond because he's too busy feeling ridiculously warm and fuzzy inside because Sam called Mer _ours_. He would revoke his own man card, but he likes the world too much right now.

****

"Honey, I'm ho-ome," Dean sings sarcastically. Sam glares when Dean lets the screen door slam closed in his face because his hands are full of carryout boxes.

"Dean!"

"Yeah?"

"A little help here?" Sam says, trying to keep his temper in check. Dean pokes his head down the stairs and smirks.

"You just learned a new trick, Sammy. Why don't you use it?" There's an undercurrent of sharpness to Dean's words, belying the playful way they're delivered. Sam grits his teeth. This is just like every conversation Dean never wants to have—just avoid avoid avoid and then make a sarcastic allusion to it and avoid avoid avoid some more.

"So you'll mock me, but you won't talk about it?" Sam grinds out, trying to hook his little finger around the screen door to get it open.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Sammy," Dean says breezily, a wide grin on his face as he watches Sam struggle. Sam glares and sends a sharp burst of irritated anger towards Dean, who jerks back and rubs his head, scowling. Sam hopes he gets a headache from it. "Bitch."

"Serves you right," Sam says smugly. Goddamned DOOR. Goddamned DEAN. Sam swears as their wonton soup spills over his shirt and down his sleeve.

"Hold on, Sam, I'll—" They both gape as the door bangs open on its own. "...um."

"Dean," Sam says faintly, freaked out. That hadn't taken nearly the same amount of energy as it had the first two times. "I think we should talk about it." Dean's face sets into stubborn lines, his jaw tight.

"That was SO COOL!" They both look up to see Mer standing on the landing, staring at Sam with wide eyes. Her skin is pink and her hair wet from a shower, and her bathrobe has sea creatures on it. "I wanna do that!"

"Absolutely not," Dean vetoes. Floating objects is not something he signed up for.

"But Dada—"

"No, Mer. Go tell Whitney it's time for dinner." Mer glares at him and crosses her arms before turning wide puppy-dog eyes on Sam.

"Atta?" she asks, smiling winsomely. Dean turns around and glares at Sam, daring him to contradict Dean.

"Your Dad said no, Mer," Sam says, which isn't a no, but more importantly, is not a yes. Dean's expression says Sam isn't getting away with this, but they'll deal with it later.

"But Atta—"

"Mer!" Dean interrupts sharply. Mer pouts and toes the ground. "Go get Whit." She makes sure they know how displeased she is by stomping away.

"Dean—"

"No, Sam." Dean snatches the takeout and stalks towards the kitchen.

"Dean! You can't ignore this!" Sam protests, doggedly following Dean.

"You aren't teaching my kid to bend spoons, Sam," Dean says with finality.

"So what, you're just going to wait for her to figure it out on her own?"

"She's not—" Dean cuts himself off and slams a plate down.

"Not what?" Sam asks dangerously. "Going to experiment? Really? Or is she not _like me?"_

"I didn't say that." Sam glares at the back of Dean's head.

"You know, I always thought you were dealing with this a little too well." Sam watches the way Dean's shoulders tense, the food he's pouring into a serving bowl splashing on his shirt. "Powerful demons, psychic powers, now telekinesis. Not to mention your own—"

"Sam—" Dean turns around and Sam steps up in his space, effectively pinning Dean to the counter.

"No, Dean," Sam says, pressing close. "You don't get to 'Sam' me. Not tonight. I've given you your space and I've never talked about it, even though that's never worked before and doesn't make it go away, but this is different, Dean. I'm getting stronger. Mer's getting stronger. This isn't going to go away. Not for me, not for Mer...and not for _you_. There's something going on here. Something bigger than us."

"It's a coincidence," Dean insists stubbornly, a last-ditch effort on his part to keep his world neat and orderly.

"I dreamt about Max. Specifically about Max. We're linked, Dean. Something is connecting us and it's...it's not good." Sam hates how desperate he sounds, how much this new development has thrown him off center. He's pinwheeling, trying to keep his balance, and he needs Dean to do that.

"I know." Sam only hears Dean's admission because they're pressed so close together. Dean's hands tangle in Sam's too-long hair. "I know. But we don't have to deal with it now. After." Dean preempts Sam's reply with a bruising kiss.

"Daaaaaads! Get a _room_!" Sam breaks the kiss and blushes, hiding his face in Dean's neck.

"Whitney!" Dean exclaims.

"Oh no. You do not get to lay that one on me, Deanie. You can blame that solely on the TV you let her watch," Whit says, grabbing the plates and a bowl of spicy chicken. She pauses and looks them over, Sam trying to hide how embarrassed he is. "Now, what you can blame me for are the _My Two Dads_ DVDs that'll be showing up sometime in the next week."

"You're joking," Dean says, horrified.

"Maybe," Whit allows. "Maybe not. Guess you'll just have to stick around to intercept them, won't you?" No one ever accused Whitney of being subtle. Sam pushes down the urge to leap to Dean's defense. They _have_ been gone a lot, and it's obviously wearing on Mer, even if she never says anything to them.

"I'm calling Dad and Missouri tonight," Dean says defensively.

"And Bobby?" Whit asks, smirking.

"Bobby can wait till the morning," Dean evades, picking up the rest of the dishes.

"Oh yeah," Whit snorts. "More like he'll tan your hide if you call him this late."

"Bitch," Dean throws at her.

"DADA! SWEARS!" Whitney laughs victoriously while Dean alternates between shooting her dark looks and apologizing to Mer. Sam sits back and grins at his family.

****

Sam takes to sneaking away to practice. It's worse than coming back to training after a long injury.

At first, he has to time it for when Dean's gone or when he really would be working out. He works up a sweat, hair sticking to his head, breath coming fast and harsh. All that to make a pencil roll. But once he does it, once he's got it, it's like he always knew how. It comes easier and easier, so that instead of getting tired, Sam's rolling pencils and pens and ping pong balls all over the place. One, two, ten at a time.

Then he moves to levitation, and he has to start the whole process over. Days spent sweating to get the object to twitch. From there, to get it to flop on the table like a dead fish. Then to hover in the air, inches off the nearest surface, see-sawing from side to side. He's just managed to keep it steady when he realizes he has an audience. The pencil clatters to the ground.

"Mer," Sam calls softly. A beat and then Mer slinks out of the shadows, her own pencil in her hand. Sam doesn't say anything, just lays her pencil right next to his. Mer tends to get the general concepts better than Sam, but Sam is more precise. He shows her the value of control, and she shows him how everything they do is fundamentally the same, but different.

Their learning curve starts out steep and doesn't show signs of stopping. They don't mention any of this to Dean.

****

"Mer's making me tired just watching her," Dean groans, falling down on the couch and swinging his feet into Sam's lap. Without any sort of regard for the book Sam _was_ reading (they're now splayed on the floor) or that he's been happily tuning out the world around him for the past couple of hours (with varying degrees of success).

"Atta! Dada! There's a _wrinkle_!" Mer wails, dismayed. Mer's wearing a dark blue shirt that brings out her eyes her black 'floaty' skirt that 'makes her feel like a princess.' Said shirt has a small crease in the front of it.

"It looks fine, Mer-Bear," Dean sighs, one hand thrown over his eyes.

"Dada!" Mer protests, stomping her foot. "You're not even looking!" Dean reaches out, hooks Mer around her waist, and lifts her up onto the couch.

"You're my kid, you always look good. And grandpa isn't going to care about a wrinkle." Mer struggles against Dean's chest and kicks Sam in the process.

"Dada! Lemme go!" Dean lets Mer slide off the couch. She looks down at how messy her shirt is now and shrieks. Loudly. Dean sighs as she runs off, the door to her room slamming shut behind her.

"WHIT!" Dean bellows.

"SHOVE IT, LOSE-CHESTER!" Whit yells back. They hear the door to Mer's room open seconds later.

"Oh, that was real creative," Dean grumbles.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam says tightly, retrieving his book.

"God, not you too," Dean groans.

"Not me—are you serious?"

"Calm down, Sammy."

"Calm down? CALM DOWN? Dean. Bobby's coming. Missouri's coming. Dad's...probably coming. That's like, the Trifecta, Dean. How are we going to explain...what are we supposed to _tell_ them?" Dean blinks.

"That's what you're worried about?" Sam gapes at him, and even though he looks like an idiot, Dean kind of loves him anyways.

"Aren't YOU?"

"No. Sam, why would they ever suspect we're..." Dean makes a rough, twirling gesture that could mean anything from 'let's go on the Ferris wheel' to 'we're gay incestuous lovers.'

"We're sharing a room!"

"We've been sharing a room our entire lives," Dean points out, surprisingly logical. "But we'll just tell them you sleep on the couch."

"Long term?" Sam demands incredulously.

"I don't think they'll really ask about it, but there's a fold-up cot in the garage. I think."

"You think?" Sam asks flatly.

"Well—" The doorbell rings, and both of them stare at the front door. Dean's hand tightens painfully around Sam's arm, so maybe he's not as flippant as he's pretending to be. They hear Mer shriek at Whit, and that pretty much confirms who's at the door.

"He never called to say he was coming," Dean says to Sam.

"Yeah. He wouldn't," Sam mutters. They open the door.

"Dean. Sam."

"Hi. Dad."


	14. Book One: Chapter 14

Mer thinks, "Five is going to be the best age in all of ever." She thinks, "This is better than X-men and SpongeBob and even Star Wars." She grins at the people seated around her kitchen table, laughing and joking and happy. Atta and Dada are teasing Whit, who is pretending extra hard today that she can't stand Dada to make sure Granpa doesn't think they're together. Which is silly, because Dada and Atta glow so hard together they make her eyes hurt sometimes. But she has a hard time explaining that to them, that sometimes she has to look away because it's too pretty.

Granpa glows here too, but that's because of everyone else. Granpa forgot how to glow for himself when Mer's real Gramma died, the one she's named after. Mer sees her sometimes, in her dreams. Her favorite is the one in the diner, where Gramma and Granpa are both younger than Atta. She likes the way they look at each other, sideways and in mirrors and with lots of blushes.

Gamma Mo and UnncaBobby are always laughing around them, even if they keep it on the inside. She thinks Gamma Mo likes her Granpa. Like, _likes_ likes him, but Gamma Mo isn't as loud as anyone else. She keeps to herself, which is nice because sometimes Dada and Atta and Whit are all Mer can hear and it gets loud and confusing and she just doesn't understand. Dada calls them migraines, but that doesn't feel right, but it doesn't matter. Mer's getting better at blocking everyone else, and she understands more and more every day.

But that's not important today. Today, she is five. Practically a grown up. And everyone is together and happy and safe. Mer grins and eats more of her cake. Funfetti, with the good icing that Whit buys. Not the bad stuff that Dada likes better, which Mer doesn't understand because the funfetti chips are _so much better_ in Whit's icing.

She grins wide when they all sing her happy birthday, even UnncaBobby, who sings low. He sings better than Atta, who sucks pretty bad, and Gamma Mo, who kind of speaks the words. She blows out all of her candles and keeps her wish super secret, even from Gamma Mo, because otherwise it won't come true. She frowns for a second, because she's pretty sure it won't come true anyways, but it can't hurt.

"You ready for your presents, Mer-Bear?" Atta asks. Mer rolls her eyes at him because _of course_ she's ready! PRESENTS! But first she has to finish her cake, because Dada keeps trying to steal it, which isn't cool and doesn't make sense if he doesn't like the icing. After his fork tries to sneak in a third time, Mer glares at him and wraps her free arm protectively around the cake. It's her birthday today. She doesn't have to share on her birthday.

And maybe she can finally convince Dada she's old enough to play Halo on the X-Box.

----

"She's down," Dean announces, accepting the beer Dad holds up for him. Mer's dinner celebration had been filled with laughter and good food. And really good cake. Mer has three converts to the Cult of Funfetti in John, Missouri, and Bobby. Mer had regaled them with stories about the kids in the neighborhood, who seemed to have lives better suited to day time soaps than preschoolers. They let her stay up extra late, until she fell asleep smooshed into John's side.

The six adults spread out through the living room and let the air of contentment seep into them. It's not often they get to sit around and just be, and never together.

"You sure you'll be okay on the couch, John?" Whit asks, her feet propped up on Dean's lap, her head on a pillow in Sam's lap.

"I've slept on worse than that thing, Whitney. Don't worry about me," John assures her.

"You don't want to know half the places he's bedded down," Missouri adds, a sharp edge to her words.

"Missouri!" John exclaims, but he can't muster up enough irritation to make it an effective rebuke. He's let his cares go (as much as he ever can) for the day, and has half a beer in him. He hasn't been this mellow in a long time.

"What? You shouldn't do anything you'd be embarrassed to tell your sons about," Missouri says with a smirk. John waves his hand dismissively.

"Too much information!" Dean yelps, trying to head this off at the pass.

"I dunno. The life and times of John Winchester. Could be an interesting story," Whit says, because she's completely _evil_.

"Compared to your life, a vegetable has an interesting life story," Dean says nastily. Whit retaliates by kicking Dean in the ribs.

"A lot of my life is dedicated to taking care of _your_ kid, Dean-o. You might want to be careful what you say about me."

"Or you'll what, corrupt her? Tell her traumatizing stories from the ER? Turn her against me? Oh, wait. _You've already done all that!"_ That starts a pillow fight between Whit and Dean of epic proportions. Whit has the bigger pillow, but Dean's is harder. After the second inadvertent smack, Sam pushes them both to the ground, but the change of scenery doesn't even faze them. It's not long before they give up on the pillows and start trading mock blows and vicious insults; Sam's glad to see those self-defense lessons Dean gives her aren't going to waste.

Soon, even Bobby's laughing at their antics, especially when Dean tells Whit she packs a punch like a hippopotamus, oh, and did she know she looks like one too? Whit responds by telling Dean that it's a good thing he's pretty because otherwise everyone would notice what a gigantic ass he is. After that, it's no holds barred and Whit wins by dent of playing up to Dean's fear of actually hurting her.

"You apologize," Whit commands, her knee digging painfully into Dean's back. Dean laughs and refuses until his spine cracks, and then he collapses loosely on the floor.

"Fuck, that hurt like a bitch but it was worth it," Dean groans into the carpet. Whit rolls her eyes but runs her hands professionally down his back, checking for any more knots and tension.

"You have the worst posture of anyone I know," she grumbles. Dean swears when she digs into a knot. Sam winces in sympathy, he's been on the receiving end of those hands. They're less forgiving than steel.

"Fuck, Whit!" Dean yells, trying to wriggle away.

"Oh suck it up," Whit commands. She glances over at John. "I thought you raised these boys to be badass."

"Some things just can't be taught," John says with an exaggerated sigh. He hides his smile behind his bottle of beer.

"Hey!" Dean objects. "I am totally badass."

"Oh yeah, Dean," Sam mocks. "That case with the ghost and the hairbrush was totally bad—"

"Shut it, Sammy!" Dean commands desperately. They'd promised never to talk about that stupid, possessed hairbrush again.

"Alright, boys. And Ms. Missouri," Whit says with a small bow towards the other woman in the room. "That's it for me. I've got an early shift tomorrow, so I'm going to bed. Don't get into too much trouble!" They all bid Whit goodnight and let the silence of her leaving settle over them. Dean's half asleep when Sam breaks the happy little buzz they all had going.

"So how long are you all staying?" Sam asked. Dean snorts at how abysmally unconcerned Sam doesn't sound. Sam blushes when he feels everyone staring at him and ducks his head, hiding behind his hair.

"Why do you ask, Sam?" Missouri asks, just as fake as Sam, who looks up long enough to glare through his blush.

"I, uh. I just..."

"Sam," John says, his voice deep and authoritative. The change in Sam is immediate. His spine straightens and his jaw locks. He looks like a man with something to prove.

"There's something going on. With my powers, the visions."

"Well we know that, son," Bobby says, his eyes slanted towards John. "You got somethin' new to tell us?"

"I think...I think there's someone keeping track of me."

"What?" Dean yells, sitting up.

"Dean!" Sam hisses, glancing up towards where Mer's fast asleep.

"Sorry, _Sam_. I just wasn't expecting you to drop something like that into casual conversation. How long? How long have you thought this?" Dean demands. Sam glances around at the people gathered in the room, most of whom he's entrusted his life to. Several times other.

"Since Max. Before Max, but he was the one that made me sure."

"Sam—this is serious," John says, leaning towards his sons.

"I know. Which is why I wanted to talk to you all. Because I need your help."

"All of us?" Bobby asks. Sam can see him mentally tallying up all of their combined skills and areas of expertise and coming up with something stupid.

"I want you to help me induce a vision. But stronger."

"Why?" Dean asks suspiciously.

"You want to do a vision walk," Missouri says, her gaze piercing.

"A vision walk? What's that?" Dean really doesn't like where this is going. John shifts in his seat, and all eyes fly to him, waiting. Expecting some sort of protest or a flat-out order not to proceed. John looks at them all, then pointedly looks away; he won't participate in their discussion, but he won't stop it either. Dean frowns and Sam's brow furrows; that's not the reaction they were expecting.

"It's...it's a vision, but more powerful," Sam says slowly, still watching Dad. Even with the distraction Dean can tell that Sam's not telling them the whole truth.

"That," Missouri says stonily, "is saying a nuclear warhead is like a BB gun, only stronger."

"Sam," Dean growls, pinning him with a glare he normally reserves for Mer at her most unmanageable.

"Look, there was someone else there in the visions. Another presence, right on the edge of everything. If I can go in and see it, figure out who or what it is..." Sam trails off with a shrug.

"Missouri?" Dean asks. She and Bobby exchange a series of looks and small gestures. Sam finds himself wondering how well they know each other that they can communicate with one another so effectively, what they could have connected over—other than the obvious—to create such a bond.

"Complaining about your family," Missouri fires at him, and Sam flushes. He forgot about Missouri's abilities. "But Sam, this is dangerous." She doesn't look happy about Sam's plan, but she isn't actively protesting it.

"Everything is dangerous," Sam insists stubbornly. Missouri glances at Bobby again, who sighs and nods.

"Yeah, we can set it up," Bobby says, resigned.

"Dean, we'll need to clear this room. I hope you don't mind chalk on your floors." Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Good. I think a pentacle for focus. A few other symbols for protection and second sight around the edges and in the spaces. I'll need to go pick up some herbs—sandalwood and saffron. Thyme too, I think. Oh, and a few candles."

"I've got some protection runes and an old gris-gris with me," Bobby adds. "And we can mix some Bay leaves and Angelica root in the paint for protection."

"We can do it tomorrow," Missouri concludes. Between her skills and Bobby's knowledge, they're going to make this the safest vision walk in the history of vision walks. Dean swallows his protests. He has a bad feeling about this, but Sam's determined and nothing Dean says will change his mind.

"So we have a plan," Dean says softly. "We go searching for this thing tomorrow."

"Lord help us," Missouri sighs, shaking her head.

****

Dean sees Missouri and Bobby out while Sam makes sure their father has everything he needs to spend a blissful night on the couch.

"You, uh, sure you don't want the cot?" Sam asks awkwardly. Their father has been unusually quiet and subdued all night. He hasn't said anything that made Sam want to bristle or fight. He's been almost...conscientious of the things he says and the subjects he broaches.

John glances between his boys and shakes his head.

"I'll be fine," he tells them, and they subside into awkward silence. There's so much he wants to tell them. So much they need to know, but he has no idea where to start. He's truly glad that they have each other—in whatever way that means—because they're going to need each other.

John thinks of the Book he left in a specially-rented storage unit and the secrets he's spent the better part of four months deciphering. He'd long figured out that there were only a few things he was _allowed_ to know, and to venture into certain pages was an effort in futility. The Book gives up its secrets in its own time, to people of its own choosing.

"You sure you want to do this tomorrow?" he asks Sam. He knows the answer doesn't matter, not really. This is the catalyst, what starts it all as _Him touched by Primrose __Se'irim who seeks truth purblind._ John doesn't know how that will manifest, but he knows Sam will go through with the vision walk. And while he may have been a crap father, he loves his sons. He wouldn't see them go through what's ahead, but he's come to realize he won't be able to stop it. And he won't be around to help. He has to play his part.

"I..." Sam stops and considers his father. They've had their differences. He's railed against the man and said things that made him flush with shame. He's not a good father, but he was the best he could be. And that counts for something, even if Sam isn't sure what. "I have to." Sam can't explain it any other way. There's just a bone-deep certitude within him that he _has_ to do this.

"Yeah. I know you do," John says, sounding utterly exhausted. Sam frowns, unsure of what to make of that. He tentatively reaches out to his father, but his mind recoils at the vortex of his father's emotions. John Winchester _overflows_ with emotions. Dark anger, discord, guilt, and revenge mixes with loyalty, faith, honor, and love. Sam can't bear the chaos and pulls back with a wince.

"Dad, I—" Sam shakes his head. He's afraid to say anything else lest he break this weird truce between them. No one is more surprised than Sam when his father pulls him into a tight hug. His father is, as always, a knot of emotions that Sam can't unravel or fully feel, but he _knows_ that no matter what his faults, Dad loves him. Sam returns the hug with equal strength.

"Dad?" Dean's voice breaks through their little haze and they break apart slowly. Sam takes a moment to find his center; he feels frayed and raw, and his eyes are suspiciously wet.

"You're doing good, Dean," John tells his son. He can't make up for the years that have passed, but he can give them this. "Mer's...you're doing a great job."

"What's going on?" Dean sounds troubled and scared, and he's got that little furrow between his eyes that means he's pinging someone. His frown deepens. "Dad?"

"I love you both." Now Sam's really alarmed.

"Dad, if there's something wrong," Sam starts desperately.

"No. No, it's...I saw something. Before I got here. Dealt with some things that made me...they made me realize that I have a lot to account for."

"You don't—" Dean starts, but John cuts him off with a sad, humorless smile. He touches Dean gently, almost reverently.

"I do." Dean watches him, looking so vulnerable it makes Sam ache. "I'll...see you boys in the morning." John turns to the couch and starts arranging his blankets and pillow.

The dismissal, at least, is familiar.

----

Sam stares at himself in the mirror, his mind buzzing with possibilities, fears, ideas. He starts when Dean comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Sam and trails his fingers over the contours of Sam's stomach and chest. Sam sinks into Dean's strength, lets him hold them both up.

He watches Dean in the mirror, the way Dean closes his eyes and turns his face into Sam's neck. It's an awesome sight, in the most fundamental meaning of the word, to watch the way Dean's face smoothes out and relax, how the tension ebbs out of him caress by caress.

Dean opens his eyes and catches Sam looking. They study each other for a moment, complete honesty between them. Dean's eyes narrow and that's all the warning Sam has before a cold hand slips into his sweats and cups him.

"Dean!" Sam pulls away, looking scandalized. "Dad is in the living room!"

"Exactly," Dean says, hunger in his eyes. "The living room. As in, not here." Sam dances away, keeping his voice to a low hiss.

"No, Dean. We are not—with Dad in the house, and the walls—Dean!" Sam holds his breath while Dean pins him to the wall, using his whole body to rub against Sam.

"Sammy," Dean pants lightly into his ear. Sam's eyes roll upwards when Dean catches the delicate shell with his teeth. "Sammy." Sam gives in and grabs Dean's head, guiding their mouths together. Silently. They can do quiet.

Dean grins at his victory and yanks Sam's t-shirt off. In retaliation, Sam cups Dean's ass, bends his legs, and picks Dean up off the ground, muscles bulging. Dean muffles a protest while Sam staggers the two steps to their bed. They both bounce off the mattress when Sam drops them.

"Fuckin' Sasquatch," Dean growls, not amused, and starts wrestling for control. Sam smirks and pins him down easily.

"You been slacking off, Dean?" Sam taunts. He presses the heel of his hand to Dean's bulge. "Taking the housewife mentality to heart?" Dean, unsurprisingly, plays dirty and twists one of Sam's nipples. It's too much to concentrate on being quiet and keeping Dean pinned, so Dean manages to get the upper hand and pin Sam's arms to the bed.

"Sammy," Dean says seriously, pulling away for a moment. Sam blinks up at him. "You die or turn into a vegetable tomorrow and I'm going to kick your ass." Sam thinks about that for a second. Instead of answering, he pulls Dean down to him and kisses him, slow and thorough.

"Yeah," Dean whispers when Sam lets him go. "Yeah, okay."

****

Mer glances suspiciously at all of them when they tell her she and Whit are going to see a movie of her choice. She picks _Watchmen_, which Dean instantly vetoes and gives her the choice between _Monsters vs Aliens_ and _Race to Witch Mountain_.

Mer glares at him and says, archly, "Well then it's not my choice, is it?" Sam covers his face with his hands to avoid Dean's ire, but Missouri has no such compunction. She laughs from the moment Mer crosses her arms to the moment she marches out the door, head held high and letting the world know, in no uncertain terms, that she's aware that they're just trying to get rid of her. Dean sighs and wonders aloud what he did to deserve this.

"Oh, you've done enough. Trust me," Missouri says with a grin.

"So, we gonna do this?" Dean asks, just to change the subject, then blanches when he remembers just what it is they're doing.

"Yeah," Bobby says with a sigh. "I guess we are."

----

They all troop into the living room. The furniture has been moved into the kitchen and the carpet peeled away. On the hardwood floor is a chalk pentacle with various symbols and runes carved into it. At each of the five points burns a candle and some dried herbs. The cot Sam supposedly sleeps on during the week is in the center of the circle.

"Alright," Bobby says, wiping his hands on his pants. He surveys his work critically and nods when Missouri makes a few changes to his glyphs. "You sure you want to do this?" he asks Sam.

"Yeah. I'm sure." Sam's mouth sets in a hard line and he squares his shoulder.

"Alright then, lie down." The second Sam lays down he knows no one has been fooled by the cot story; it smells musty and unused and like basement.

"Sam," Missouri calls.

"Yeah?"

"We're going to start. Bobby and I are going to ground the spell; John and Dean are going to be your anchors. You need to come back, you concentrate on them. You should be able to find them no matter where you are and follow them home. Alright?"

"Yeah. I got it." Missouri and Bobby start chanting in tandem, their voices flowing over and around him. Sam closes his eyes and thinks about his visions, about what he wants to do. The smoke from the herbs thickens and tickles his nose. The voices fade into the background and Sam feels dizzy.

He opens his eyes and he's in Max Miller's garage. He touches the lawn mower in the corner and it feels real. He can even detect the faint scent of cut grass. Sam glances in the car and sees Mr. Miller, looking normal and unharmed. This must be the few seconds before Max's attack.

Sam straightens and glances around. He catches a shadow of a person out of the corner of his eye and thinks about moving towards it. He blinks and finds himself outside, right next to the person. It's Max, hidden in the shadows, face twisted in rage and fear and determination. Sam squints; are Max's eyes faintly yellow? He leans in to get a closer look, but whirls around when he senses another presence. The same one he's felt watching him for weeks.

Sam's heart starts racing because there's _something here_, but he can't figure out where. He spins in a circle, eyes darting around wildly. The feeling of being watched doesn't diminish. The atmosphere around him seems thick and oppressive.

"Hello?" he calls out. Might as well get this over with. "Hello! Who's out there?"

"Hello, Sammy."


	15. Book One: Chapter 15

"Hello, Sammy." The man's older than him, maybe his father's age, but no one Sam recognizes.

"Who are you?" Sam asks. The man's smile makes his skin crawl.

"Oh, I think we're beyond that, don't you, Sammy?" Sam takes a step back when the man's eyes flash yellow. "Besides, those aren't the questions you want to be asking."

"It's you, isn't it?" The man grins wolfishly, and the darkness Sam has been feeling for weeks comes back, stronger and more stifling.

"You found me!" it cackles, like this is all a game.

"We've been looking for you for a long time."

"Yes, and I can't tell you what a pain in the ass that's been. Your father is one of the most annoyingly persistent humans I've ever met. But you already know that, don't you, Sammy?" There's a flash, and Sam's vividly remembers standing in front of John, 18 years old and yelling about college and his future. Anger, contempt, and teenage hatred wells up fresh within in him.

"NO!" Sam yells, and stumbles back. The feelings fade, but his heart still races and Sam can feel the residual anger within him, hanging on around the edges and affecting his concentration. The demon chuckles.

"You're strong. Good. Learn what you can from Dean's spawn."

"Leave her alone!" Sam shouts, suddenly afraid for Mer. All the women in his life have died by this creature's hands—Mom, Jess. The bastard can't have Mer.

"So much fear and anger." The demon shivers in a parody of pleasure. "But don't you worry. Or maybe you should. Because Mer's your only real competition, and she's got youth on her side." Mer shimmers into existence beside the demon, a still-life 3-D image of the real thing. The demon runs his fingers through her hair in a mockery of paternalistic affection.

"You son of a—"

"Ah-ah." Sam goes flying through the air and hits the side of the garage. "Language, Sammy. And do try to be play nice, I'd hate to have to hurt you. I have plans for you, after all. And all the children like you."

Sam calms himself; the objective here is information. "What plans?"

"Tell me, Sammy. Could you take orders from your niece? Or is there going to be friction between the two of you?" He tilts imaginary Mer's head up. The empty, soulless look in the figure's green eyes cause a chill to race down Sam's spine.

"What?"

"Well, as good as you're turning out, there's nothing that compares to getting to them early." The demon grins, like he's waiting for Sam to say something, to connect the dots, and Sam...he can't...

"You didn't," Sam gasps. His vision spots and he can't get enough air.

"Really. Dean spent so much time demon-proofing his house, only to send the reason out into the big, bad world with a nanny for protection? Tsk tsk. That's down right negligent parenting."

"No!" Sam strains with everything in him and breaks free of the demon's hold. He rushes forward, intent on getting rid of the bastard once and for all. He registers a moment of surprise on the demon's face, but it disappears before Sam can wrap his hands around its gloating neck.

"Huh." Sam spins around and the demon's standing behind him, looking thoughtfully. "You're ahead of schedule. Oh well, can't be helped."

"You let her go, or I swear to God—"

"God?" the demon snorts a laugh. "He doesn't factor in this."

"Where is she, you bastard!"

"Oh, look at the time!" the demon says in surprise, looking down at his bare wrist. "Sorry to cut this short, Sambo, but I've got places to be, people to possess, little girls to sacrifice. You know how busy it gets. But...we should do this against sometime! Toodles!"

"No! You fucker, come back! MER!"

Sam jerks up and he's back at home, sitting up on the cot.

"Sam?" Dean asks.

"He's got Mer. _The demon that killed Mom has Mer._"

****

"God DAMN IT!" Dean slams the phone closed when Whit's cell goes straight to voicemail for the thirtieth time. The Impala's speedometer inches up another mile. A quick glance in the rearview mirror shows that Dad's right on their tail with Bobby and Missouri in his truck. Sam hangs on as Dean takes a hair-pin curve.

"Do you smell that?" Sam asks, voice low and tight. The scent of something burning filters through the car's vents. Around the next corner the movie theater is on fire, police cars, ambulances and fire trucks surrounding the area. Dean's out of the car so fast he forgets to put it in park.

"Mer! MARY!" Sam pulls the parking break and gets out after Dean.

"Sir!" Dean struggles against the policeman trying to restrain him. All he can see is the theater, charred and smoking "Sir you can't—" Sam catches a flash of dark skin near the ambulances.

"Whit!" Sam yells, and takes off towards the ambulances where he can see Whit, buckled into a stretcher, EMS personnel surrounding her. She has an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, and a bandage over her abdomen. Sam is vaguely aware of Dean right beside him, both of them concentrating on getting to her.

Sam wants to scream in frustration when they're intercepted by another uniform.

"Sirs. I need you to—"

"Whitney! I know her, we know her," Sam says frantically. A paramedic pulls the bandage from Whit's side and there's an angry burn underneath it, blistered and oozing. Soot makes patches of her skin darker than it already is.

"Who? Which one?" the officer asks.

"Her, the woman in the blue shirt! She's our—my sister-in-law," Sam says.

"Please, she was here with my daughter," Dean interjects, seconds away from decking the guy and doing his own thing. The officer pales, and Sam's grateful Dean isn't looking at him right now.

"Alright, come with me."

They approach the ambulance. A paramedic calls out readings and tries to get a coherent response out of Whit.

"Ma'am, can you tell me your name? Ma'am? Heart rate is still erratic."

"Her name is Whitney Steton, she's a nurse at St. Christopher's," Sam tells them while Dean climbs into the ambulance beside her.

"Whit. Whit," he says, and takes her hand in his. "Where's Mer? What happened to Mer?"

"Sir, she shouldn't--" Whit's gaze fixates on Dean's and she tries to take the mask off. Dean reaches over and pulls it away. Sam can hear how hard it is for her to breathe.

"There were...too many," she wheezes, eyes full of unshed tears. "Sorry. S-sorry."

"I know," Dean chokes out. He smoothes her hair back, like he would for Mer, and rubs some soot off Whit's cheek. "I know you are."

"Y-yellow," Whit gasps out. "His eyes..."

"That's enough," the paramedic snaps, and puts the mask back over Whit's nose and mouth. "You're her husband?"

Dean gapes at the man, so Sam answers for him, "Yes. He is."

"Alright, you can ride with us. We're taking her to West Plains."

"But I need to—"

"Dean," Sam says, injecting as much authority into his voice as he can. Dean freezes and stares up at him, looking lost. Sam wants to hold him, kiss him, rip the fucking demon to shreds all at once. He settles for grabbing Dean's hand. "Go with Whit. She needs you."

"Mer—"

"I will take care of it," Sam promises. Dean nods, once, and squeezes Sam's hand. Sam swallows and nods back and makes himself let go. The ambulance speeds away, and when Sam turns around, Bobby, Missouri, and Dad are watching him. Without Dean, all Sam can think is _I should have done better._

"I..." Sam has no idea what he should do, only that he made Dean a promise.

"Bobby and I are going to stay here," John announces. "We'll get in and look around as soon as the emergency crews take off. Sam, you and Missouri go to the hospital and get what you can out of Whit." Sam loves his father with all his heart for being in charge, staying strong. Sam steps forward and John opens his arms, accepts Sam's hug without question. Sam sucks in a shuddering breath, gasping for air like he hasn't managed to breathe since he realized Mer was gone.

"Thank you," Sam breathes. John nods and then pushes Sam gently away.

"Go. Be there for Dean. We'll call you if we learn anything."

****

Sam finds Dean sitting in the waiting room, looking small in the uncomfortable chairs.

"Dean." Dean jerks up and his eyes are red rimmed. "How is she?"

"Uh." Dean scrubs at his eyes. "She's got...a bad burn on her side. Cuts. Some smoke inhalation. A bruised jaw." Dean looks at him, eyes lost. "The bastard punched her. She tried to stop him and he—"

"Dean," Sam says softly, rubbing soothing circles along Dean's back.

"I should've been there!" Dean yells. He gets up and starts pacing. "I should have been there, I was supposed to protect her, it's my fault—"

"Dean."

"I should've—" Sam pushed off the chair and grabbed the back of Dean's head, forcing him to look into Sam's eyes.

"Blame me."

"What?" Dean asks, his self-recrimination fading into confusion.

"I should have known what that bastard had planned. I was the distraction that got Mer out of the house. I bought him all the time he needed. It's my fault, blame me." Even though Sam's making a point and logic said he couldn't have known, he meant every word.

"That's stupid, Sam," Dean growls.

"Yeah, it is, Dean," Sam agrees. Dean swallows and looks down. Sam's hand turns into a caress.

"You can...you feel her, right?" Dean asks. Sam closes his eyes and concentrates. The place where Mer's taken up residence is muted and empty, but not broken and gone. There's something shielding her from him, from them both, but even a spell can't sever their connection. He _knows_ she's alive, even if he can't tell anything else.

"Yeah," Sam says hoarsely. "I can feel her."

"Mr. Winchester?" The break apart and turn towards the doctor, who glances between the two of them skeptically.

"Yeah. That's me. I'm...Mr. Winchester," Dean says uncomfortably.

"You're here with Whitney Steton?"

"Yes. How is she?"

"She's doing well. Vitals are stable. We're most concerned about the burn on her side. It's deep and seeping, so we're giving her a lot of fluid through the IV and keeping the room as sterile as possible to prevent infection. She was intubated to take some of the pressure off of her lungs. I'm optimistic that we'll be able to take out the tube tomorrow."

"So she's okay?" Sam asks.

"She'll have scarring over part of her abdomen, and some muscle weakness as a result. She'll need to go through physical therapy, but again, I'm optimistic."

"Thank you," Dean says, voice thick with emotion. "Can we see her?"

"In a few minutes, and it's a clean room, so you'll have to change first. We don't want her burn getting infected. I'll come get you when it's time."

"Thanks," Sam says, but his attention is already back on Dean. "Hey, she's going to be fine." Sam hooks an arm over Dean's shoulder and pulls him close, ignoring Dean's weak protests. Dean gives in for a moment, then half-heartedly starts pushing at Sam.

"Stop it," Sam says sharply. "You can just say I need it." A small smile ghosts over Dean's lips, and he gives up. He's in a hospital and Sam's a giant girl so everything... Dean fights back the wave of emotion because _Mer is gone_. His little girl has been kidnapped by the same fucker that killed his mom and he has no idea how to find her. Or if she's okay, or what the demon plans to do with her.

"Ow!" Dean's hand flies to his head, but not fast enough to ward off another blow. "Ow! Missouri!"

"Oh, are we done with our pity party now?" Missouri asks sarcastically.

"What the hell, Missouri?" Dean demands angrily. Christ, he's like a pregnant chick with his mood swings, but he's too pissed to care.

"I could ask you the same thing!" Missouri returns, hands on her hip. "Now cut that out. You don't have time to feel sorry for yourself. And it's not going to make Whit better or get Mer back. So pull yourself together. You're going to need to use your head to get that little girl back, and you don't have enough brains to spare any feeling sorry for yourself."

Dean glares at Missouri, anger bubbling in him. Then, as abruptly as it came, it leaves him. Dean sags into Sam, exhausted and drained, and nods. Missouri presses her lips together, tears gathering in her eyes, and pats Dean on the cheek.

****

Whit's tube gets removed the next morning. The doctor reports that she's breathing on her own and expected to recover well. She requests to see Dean alone. When he comes out of his room, his eyes are red and haunted. Everyone looks the other way when he drags Sam into the men's bathroom and locks them inside for twenty minutes. When they come back out, they both look wrecked, but there's a pervading sense of calm to them.

"Whit says to kill the bastard as painfully as possible," Dean reports, the barest hint of a tremor in his voice.

"Good," John says darkly. "Because we are. And I know someone who can help us."


	16. Book One: Chapter 16

By mutual agreement, Missouri heads back to her house to gather supplies and keep an ear out for anything that might be helpful. She's not a fighter, she'll just get in their way, but she can make preparations. They head due west, towards the setting sun, a caravan of three cars and four very determined men.

Sam and Dean don't talk as they follow John's truck over the miles, Bobby right behind them. After about fifty miles, Dean stretches across the seat, his hand resting lightly against Sam's headrest. Another 50 miles and it casually slips down to rest on Sam's neck.

Sam glances at Dean, who carefully ignores him. Rolling his eyes, Sam scoots closer and settles his hand on Dean's knee, gratified at the way Dean relaxes minutely in response.

----

"What the—" Sam jerks awake when Dean cuts the wheel hard to one side. He swears and throws the car into park. "What the hell, Bobby?" Sam notices that Bobby's now in front of them, his car cutting off John's truck a little further up the highway. The two men are at the side of the road in a standoff.

Sam and Dean scramble out of the car and run towards the two other men, who look like they're about to get into a fight.

"You idjit!"

"You have any better ideas?"

"Yeah! Not getting shot on account of you!"

"Ellen is—"

"Ellen's got the word out she'll skin you alive 'afore she'll look at ye, much less _help_ you!"

"What the hell is going on here?" Dean yells over Dad and Bobby. They stop talking and face off, glaring at one another. "Well?"

"Your father's gone and had a damn fool idea and he's committed to it," Bobby grumbles.

"And Bobby doesn't have an alternate suggestion," John growls.

"Um," Sam says eloquently. It's like watching your parents fight and having no idea who to side with.

"Get back in the car," John orders. With that they're back on familiar ground.

"Dad—" Dean starts, but John cuts him off.

"Sam, Dean. Get in the car. We're going to the Roadhouse," John declares. Dean turns and starts back to the car almost before John's finished issuing his command. Sam's first instinct is to rebel, but there's no reason to and every second they waste is one more second Mer doesn't have.

While he's striding away, he hears Bobby say, "I'm not digging buckshot outta yer ass again, Winchester!" Sam stumbles, because that's surely a story he wants to hear, even if the image it conveys is less than palatable.

****

They roll up to a rundown, deserted bar in the middle of nowhere, "Roadhouse Saloon" painted on a faded sign. The place looks like it could be a set on a slasher movie.

"We're not here on a job, are we?" Sam whispers to Dean. Dean elbows him in the stomach, but the ghost of a smile lightens his drawn features momentarily. They follow Dad and Bobby into the bar. It's dark, all the lights are off. There's something ominous in the air.

"Spread out," John commands softly. He pulls out and checks his handgun, the slide clicking metallically in the silence. The rest of them do the same. They pair off, Sam and Dean, Bobby and John.

The main room is empty. Dean finds a set of steps that lead downstairs. Sam flags Dad and Bobby, who nod in acknowledgement. When Sam turns around, Dean's already disappeared down the stairs.

----

Dean slowly eases down the steps, wishing he'd thought to bring a flashlight. The basement is empty and kind of creepy...but apparently not as empty as he thought, judging by the hardness pressing into the middle of his back.

"Oh God, let that be a rifle," Dean mutters.

"No. I'm just real happy to see you," a female voice says. Dean starts to turn around but the gun stabs into his back. "Don't move!"

"Not moving, copy that," Dean says amicably. He subtly tests the press of the gun to his back, calculates how she's holding the it, what it would take to disarm her. "But you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don't want to put it right against their back. Because it makes it real easy to do—" Dean swings his arm behind him and spins away, wrenching the gun out of the girl's hands, flipping it around and cocking it "—this." He aims at her, but she steps into his space and punches him square in the face. To add insult to injury, she takes the rifle back from him too.

"Fuck. Was not expecting that." The girl, who's blonde and pretty hot, smirks at him. "Sam! I could use some help in here! Sam!"

"You can let him go, Jo," another female voice says from above, this one ringing with the authority of age. "He's about as harmless as a puppy."

"Hey!" Dean protests.

"Yeah, I can tell," the girl—Jo, apparently, and what kind of name is that for a girl?—says. She expertly breaks the gun and flicks the safety on. She spins around and heads up the steps. Dean follows her, disgruntled. And his nose is bleeding. And his kid is fucking missing.

When he gets upstairs, Sam and Bobby are sitting on the patron side of the bar. A woman behind the bar is pouring shots of whisky into four glasses. There's no sign of Dad anywhere. Dean forces himself to walk over to Sam and not demand to know what they're doing here, how this is going to help them find Mer. He takes a deep breath and lets it out. Sam yanks him down on a stool, watches Dean with concerned eyes and it doesn't help Dean's mental state. He spins around so his back's to the bar and scans the rundown interior. It's dark, filled with shadows; Dean can see how a hunter would feel at home here.

"Where's..." Dean pauses as he catches movement from the corner of his eye. His dad rises up from behind the bar, a cloth full of ice pressed to his face. He pulls it away to reveal a swollen eye and a deep cut on the bridge of his nose. Dean's own injury twinges in sympathy.

"I see you met Jo," Dad grunts dryly, and hands Dean a double whisky.

"John," Jo greets, a hint of teenage insolence in her voice, like she's not quite used to calling adults by their given names.

"Josephine," John greets back, ignoring her dig.

"That's not—" Jo breaks off and scowls at him.

"Stop baiting my daughter, Winchester," the older woman behind the bar growls. She holds herself with poise, and Dean would definitely think twice before crossing her. She's dangerous. "And you give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you where you stand."

"I can think of two," Jo mutters, glancing between Sam and Dean. Sam splutters on his liquor and Dean rolls his eyes. Smooth, Sammy. He makes a show of slapping Sam on the back with excessive force, just as he's about to take another sip of his drink. Which naturally makes him spill half of it down his shirt.

"We need your help, Ellen," John says, ignoring his sons' antics.

"John Winchester, actually asking for help? I never thought I'd see the day," Ellen says, though it's not as mean as it could be. She starts popping the caps off some beer bottles for round two; she's not dealing with drop-drunk hunters tonight.

"That bastard kidnapped my granddaughter," John confesses, his voice tight with anger. Dean glares down at the bar and tries to keep his emotions in their cage. Ellen gasps softly. "So yeah, I'm asking for your help."

"What do you need?" Ellen asks somberly, all business now. Dean can feel Jo's eyes on him, watching him, and he resists the urge to get the hell out. Dad says these people can help, they can help.

"Well. I was hoping Ash was around."

"No, we're hoping Ash is awake," Bobby corrects.

"Good luck with that," Ellen mutters. "Jo? Go get Ash."

"Sure," Jo says amicably. "ASH! GET DOWN HERE!" They all wince and cover their ears.

"Joanna Harvelle!" Ellen yells and chucks a dishrag at her head. Dean remembers Mer doing the same thing, yelling up the steps for Whit and Sam making her walk all the way to Whit's room and knock like a polite human being. Fuck, he feels guilty about leaving Whit all alone in the hospital. He should never have sent them out alone to begin with. He knows better. _He fucking knows better._

"What?" Jo asks innocently. They hear what sounds like a herd of elephants thundering down the stairs. "I got Ash."

A young man who looks like a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie tumbles down the steps. He's got the longest mullet Dean's ever seen and his clothes are torn and ragged.

"S'it closin' time?" the man mumbles. He sees the open beers sweating on the counter and his eyes light up. He makes a beeline for the alcohol, but Ellen raps his knuckles before he can snatch one.

"After you talk to John," she reprimands. Ash grunts, right before John grabs his elbow and steers him to the other side of the room, a thick manila folder tucked under his arm.

"We came for that? He's got a mullet!" Dean hisses at Sam. Bobby snorts a laugh and then ignores them.

"He's a genius," Jo says. She's behind the bar now, rifling through the bottles. She grabs one and leans over to pour them each another shot, because if any situation called for more liquor, this is it. Dean appreciates the view her tank top affords for a moment, before he glances away because he can feel Sam's irritated disapproval.

"You have got to be kidding me," Dean mutters, taking the opportunity to look away from Jo and at the other side of the room where Ash and Dad are bent over a folder, talking in low tones.

"Give him a chance," Jo argues and takes her shot right out of the bottle. "He may surprise you." Dean's mildly impressed. He and Sam don't bother to toast before they down theirs; there's nothing to cheer about. Jo's eyes wander up the length of Sam's chest and Dean resists the urge to tell her to back the fuck off, he's taken. That's not something they need to deal with now of all times. Her attention switches to Dean, open and assessing. It's enough to make Sam give Dean the Evil Eye, as if it's _Dean's_ fault she's hitting on him.

"Come on. This crap ain't real! There ain't nobody can track a demon like this!" Ash's voice carries to them. John's response is nothing more than a deep background rumble.

"Yeah. I'm real surprised," Dean snarks. He downs the rest of his whisky, enjoying the way it burns. It doesn't do anything to diminish the anguish of knowing Mer's gone. He clenches his jaw against the onslaught of rage and fear. Fuck, he's barely hanging on here, and Dad's talking to some mullet-head freak about statistics, correlations, and other words that hold no meaning for Dean. He feels Sam's fingers lightly brush the small of his back, and it grounds him. Instead of throwing his glass across the room, he sets it down on the bar.

Jo continues to watch them, occasionally taking a swig out of her bottle.

"So. You're the infamous Winchester brothers," Jo says, and someone should really teach her the art of subtlety.

"Oh, hell," Bobby grumbles. "I'm going to play with the grownups." He gets up and ambles towards John and Ash, picking up Ellen along the way. Sam hides his smile at Bobby's antics.

"You know, I've heard of you two," Jo continues, pouring them all another round.

"Oh yeah?" Sam asks, unimpressed. Dean wonders if he's going to get in a cat fight with Jo. That...could be amusing, under different circumstances. Right now it's just an unwelcome annoyance.

"I thought you were gonna toss me some cheap pick-up line. Most hunters come through that door and think they can get in my pants with some...pizza, a six pack, and side one of Zeppelin IV." Dean focuses on finishing his beer.

"Dean forgoes the pizza. And the six pack," Sam says snippily. "And he doesn't call the next morning, either." Jo's mouth presses together in annoyance and she glares at Sam. Dean suddenly remembers why he loves Sam so freakin' much it hurts sometimes.

"But you can't go wrong with Zeppelin," Dean agrees, but it sounds hollow.

----

Fifty-one hours. Fifty-one hours for Mullet Head to do some voodoo on a computer and...hopefully they'll have a location. Something to go on, something they can _act_ upon. But until then, all they can do is sit on their asses and wait.

"Dean," Sam groans from the bed. He pulls the pillow off his face and squints at the harsh lights. It's...almost three in the morning, and Dean's cleaning the guns for the second time. "Dean!" Dean pauses in his mania and glances at Sam, eyebrow cocked.

"Come to bed?" Sam asks, wincing even as he says it. Oh God, he really does sound like a '50s housewife. Dean turns back to his guns and Sam huffs into his pillow. This situation is completely fucked. Mer's absence is a gaping, raw wound in Sam's psyche; he can't even imagine what it feels like to Dean, who has felt her constantly for five years. Never not been able to find her, pinpoint her location and how she's feeling.

Sam starts when the bed behind him dips and Dean presses himself close.

"Dean—"

"Don't." Sam squeezes his eyes shut at how wrecked Dean sounds. Something hot and wet soaks into his t-shirt. Dean hangs onto Sam like a lifeline, his body shaking silently. Sam takes it for as long as he can, gives Dean what he wants until Sam _has_ to turn around and give him what he needs. Sam wraps Dean up tight, arms and legs twined together until neither of them can tell where one starts and the other begins.

****

They wake up to a loud pounding on the door. Dean pushes himself off the bed and stalks into the bathroom without a word. Sam sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, and winces at the tangles.

"Sam! Dean!" John yells through the door, pounding getting louder. Sam blearily opens the door and doesn't realize until too late that only one of the beds has been slept in. It's a quick jump from there to _I don't care,_ because really, they all have bigger things to worry about today.

"Morning," Sam greets and slumps in a chair.

"Missouri called." From the flat tone, not with any good news.

"What'd she say?" They both turn to look at Dean. He's got bruises under his eyes and stubble on his face. Sam thinks he looks dangerous in the psychotic kind of way.

Dad must think the same because he studies Dean for a moment then says, "We're going to get Mer back. Ash says he's closing in."

"What. Did. She. Say." When John doesn't speak up, they both know it's going to be bad. Very bad.

"He's going to use her—" John chokes off, disguising it under the pretext of clearing his throat. This bastard has already taken so much from him, from his children. And now he wants to use Mer to...to... "He's trying to raise the Devil Himself. And he wants to use Mer to do it. Missouri's not sure of the specifics." What he means is he's not sure if Mer has to die for it or become it. Dean picks up the nearest chair and throws it against the far wall where it cracks and splinters. There's a louder crack over it, like rocks splitting apart.

"Sam. Sam! SAM!" Sam starts out of his haze of anger. Dean's crouched in front of him, looking worried.

"What?"

"You back with me?" Dean asks, touching Sam's face lightly. Sam frowns, not understanding until his eyes drift past Dean and he gapes. There's a large crack in the floor, a couple inches wide. It goes all the way up the wall and into the ceiling.

"I did that," Sam says, shocked. Dean stares at the crack, and he has to know that Sam's been practicing. Sam holds his breath, waiting for Dean's reaction.

"Save it for the demon," Dean says fiercely, and Sam nods numbly.

They start when John's cell phone rings shrilly, cutting through the silence.

"Yeah?" he answers. Sam and Dean watch their father as his expression tightens into a grimace. "We'll be right there." He hangs up and looks at them, ignoring—for the moment—the crack in the wall. "Ash has a location."


	17. Book One: Chapter 17

**A/N**:_ Sorry about the delay, FF really didn't want to let me into my account! Back to our regular scheduled posting on Sunday, promise!_

* * *

"This is, like, revolutionary, man," Ash breathes, staring at the map on his computer. "This could change hunting, make it—"

"Where is she?" Dean interrupts, his voice a dark growl. Ash frowns and hits a button. The map on the screen pulls out.

"Ladysmith?" Sam says dubiously.

Ash's program tracks the demon to the geographic center of Ladysmith, Wisconsin. And not just the Yellow Eyed son of a bitch. A web crawl of news sites had shown there was more demonic activity going on in the city than just YED's signatures.

As they roll into the outskirts of the city, it looks like even the lay people are making themselves scarce. Houses are shut tight at nightfall and there are barely any cars on the roads.

They set up base a mile from the epicenter in a newly abandoned motel. They get a suite, Bobby and John in one room, Sam and Dean in the other. Missouri gives them three days at the far end to get Mer out before all Hell breaks loose. In a scarily literal way.

----

"That's it?" John asks, nodding towards the building in front of them. Dean twitches, everything in him screaming at him because he can _feel_ the darkness coming out of the building. It hurts to know Mer's there and just...leave. They're only here to case the place, to gather as much information as possible before they stage their rescue.

They all quiet as three people approach the building. Bobby pulls his high-tech binoculars out of a bag.

"Demons," Bobby says grimly, handing them to John. The binoculars pass down the line, each of them making their own notes of the demons: the way they move, the way they react to one another.

"Sunnuvabitch!" Sam thumbs the focus, just to make sure.

"What?" Dean asks, his tension a stabbing pain in the front of Sam's head. "What is it?"

"It's _him_." For a second it seems like the YED is looking straight at them, like he knows they're there. Then the goggles are ripped out of his hand, and Sam's anger at the entire situation boils over. He is not a kid and his father does not have the right to treat him like one. Sam feels something dangerous rising in his chest.

Dean touches him lightly on the arm and it all fades into the background. Icy calm floods through him, crystalline and clear. A cold, deliberate kind of rage, and Sam turns to look at Dean because that's his rage, deep down. Oh, his anger still burns, but the fire has faded and left behind something much scarier and far, far more deadly. Sam grins, sharp and feral. Dean's eyes glitter like ice and they turn their attention back to the building.

"I counted six," John reports, but it doesn't mean anything. There are probably more than that, and when going against Demons, numbers don't mean much. They need a plan and they need one now. Not being able to see the inside of the building is going to put them at a disadvantage.

----

"I don't trust these blueprints," John mutters for the fifth time. According to city records tacked up on the wall of their suite, the inside of the building should be one vast, empty space. They'd gotten one fleeting glimpse of the inside through the binoculars, and it hadn't felt empty at all.

"There's at least one other room in there," Bobby agrees. "Question is, who built it? And why."

Dean gets up and slams out of the room, Sam right on his footsteps. Sam makes sure to lock the suite door behind him.

Sam sits on the edge of 'his' bed, the one they're only pretending to use. He tracks Dean as he paces the room, there and back, there and back, thirteen steps wall-to-wall. Sam concentrates on blocking out Dean's volatile emotions without blocking off himself; it's not easy maintaining a one-way connection like that, and if Sam allowed his anger to mix with Dean's the resulting mix could be catastrophic.

"They fucking _built_ that place to kill her," Dean finally growls. On his next lap, Sam steps right into his path. Dean runs into him, body stiff with tension. Sam doesn't try to touch Dean any other way, just stands there like a wall until Dean stops pushing.

"It doesn't matter what they plan to do," Sam tells him with all the conviction he possesses, "because we are going to save her."

"She shouldn't need saving," Dean rasps. He's trying too hard to keep it together, like he forgot they're connected, that Sam can sense the depth of his pain and how much Dean still blames himself.

"True," Sam agrees, his heart breaking for Dean. With Dean. "But that's not on us." Dean stares resolutely over Sam's shoulder, eyes fixed somewhere on the far wall. They're pressed together, chest to chest, leg to leg. Neither one of them believe Sam's words.

Sam half expects it when Dean kisses him like he's starting a fight, fast and brutal. His teeth scrape along Sam's lips and he doesn't wait for Sam to get with the program, just takes what he wants.

Sam grunts and grabs the front of Dean's shirt, ignoring the seams that rip. The flat of Dean's hand drives into his solar plexus, making Sam huff and double over, tears stinging his eyes. Dean spins him around and rubs against Sam's ass, hands pinning Sam's shoulders to the bed. Nothing about this is for Sam's pleasure; Dean's not concerned with that. Sam grunts and thrusts his hips against the bed, but it's not enough. If Sam wants to get off, he's going to have to take it.

Sam holds still, picks up on Dean's rhythm and at the upthrust snaps his head back, catching Dean unaware. Dean curses, distracted long enough for Sam to turn around and face Dean. There's a thin trail of blood from a cut on Dean's lip, right where Sam's head must have caught him. Sam lunges forward and licks it off, tastes the dull metallic tang of the cut.

They push aside enough clothes to get themselves off. Sam's cock nestles in the groove of Dean's hip. He sometimes brushes against Dean's erection and it sends a trill of pleasure through him. He gasps and pushes harder into Dean's skin. He can feel his release, hovering on the horizon, just where he can't reach it.

"Fuck, Sammy!" Dean growls. His teeth close possessively around Sam's ear. Sam reaches between them and squeezes their erections together. He brushes his thumb on the underside of Dean's cockhead. He squeezes until it hurts. Dean gasps and thrusts into his hand, panting and making mewling, animal noises as Sam handles him.

Sam stiffens and comes, his back arching back. His mouth falls open and his eyes squeeze shut. Dean frantically pistons upwards, seeking his own release. He finds it moments later, warm wetness splashing against Sam's stomach, both of them panting in the aftermath.

There's no afterglow here, no lingering feelings of closeness and satisfaction. Just a sudden rush of emptiness and loss. And even though they can feel one another's emotions, share every nuance of their being, they both feel impossibly alone.

****

This time, Sam joins Dean in the gun cleaning. Neither one of them is going to be able to sleep tonight, mutual orgasms notwithstanding.

There's a perfunctory knock on the door before John comes in. He glances between them, and this is one of those times Sam's sure Dad knows what they're doing.

"We've got a plan, of sorts." He watches them cleaning their guns, hands moving with competence. "How strong are you, Sam?" Dean's falters so slightly Sam would have missed it had he not be so completely in tune with Dean.

"What do you mean?" he asks, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

"We don't have times for games, Sammy—"

"It's SAM," Sam interrupts, slamming his gun on the table with unnecessary force. They glare at each other and he's eighteen and leaving for college all over again. Filled with righteous fury and glittering rage. The silence stretches thick between them. Sam feels like brittle glass, one touch and he'll shatter into a thousand shards, all of them flying out with deadly force.

The metallic snick-click of an automatic slide, loaded and primed, sounds in the silent room. It's enough to remind the two combatants that _this_ isn't a fight they need to be having right now.

"What's the plan," Dean asks, voice flat. He doesn't look at either of them, just breaks down his favorite Glock and starts cleaning it all over again.

"That depends on Sam," John says, "and what he's capable of."

"I'm _capable_ of a lot of things," Sam says through clenched teeth.

"We're going in blind. Bobby's got some new shell packing that should burn Demons like holy water. The weaker ones, might make the host's body unbearable to be in. We can tape a barrier spell, play it on repeat through a boom box."

"Sounds like a shitty plan," Dean says neutrally.

"We only have to get one person in to interrupt the spell." John looks right at his youngest son, assessing. "Are you strong enough?" Sam glowers at him, lips pursed together. He looks so much like his mother it hurts.

"Does it matter what I say?" Sam says bitterly, unable to just let shit go. "Because I'm pretty sure you've already made up your mind."

"If you want me to stop treating you like a child, you need to stop acting like one," John says, trying to keep his temper in check. The heavy thump of Dean's gun on the table sounds like a censure.

John winces as Sam stomps off into the bathroom, door slamming shut and rattling the walls. He spins the other way, going outside and into the night, away from the stifling atmosphere. He's angry. Angry at Sam, at himself, at the YED, at a lot of things.

With a weary sigh, John sits down on the ground, wishing he had a bottle of whisky and a manual on how to talk to his son.

----

Dean throws the gun in his hands across the room, watching it clatter to the floor with dispassionate eyes. FUCK. His kid is missing and Sam and Dad can't put their issues behind them for five minutes to get her the fuck back. He's so fucking tired of being the buffer between them. Encouraging Sam to just fall in line; telling Dad to give Sam his space. Snarling at both of them because they're both so goddamn stubborn.

But that's his job, his role. That's how he fits in here. What makes him necessary. He glances between the bathroom and the door, torn between his father and his—his Sam. With a glance at the silent bathroom, Dean slips outside.

His father is sitting on the curb beside the Impala, staring into the distance. He looks old and tired in this light. A chill creeps up Dean's spine. Something discourteous and unsettling takes up residence in his chest.

Dean sits beside his father and stares out into the night. When he feels like he can handle it, he opens himself to his father's emotions. It sets Dean's teeth on edge, the amount of guilt and anger. The kind of anger that's been with a person for years, that's settled into their very being, old and fetid. But above all that, his father is troubled about a good many things—things that don't have anything to do with Mer directly. John keeping secrets is nothing new, but something about these raise goosebumps on Dean's skin.

"I always knew you'd make a good father." It's so unexpected Dean jerks, his foot sliding along the pavement before he finds traction. "Even when I could never get through to you after...well, Sam always could. One smile and you'd be on top of the world for a week. He still can."

"Dad, I..." Dean pauses, unsure of what he wants to say. "You're really freakin' me out." It's the truth, on many levels.

"Yeah," John says with a half-smile. "You...you're a good son, Dean. You and Sam both—more than I deserved. And—" John swallows and forces himself to continue; he'll only get one chance at this. "Do what makes you happy." The last sentence comes out in a crush of words, each one chasing the other. He tries not to put too much _knowing_ behind them.

"Is there something you aren't telling us?" Dean asks seriously. John stares out at the parking lot unseeing. There's a lot he's not telling them. Mostly because there's nothing he can do to stop it and they deserve what happiness they can find. "Dad?"

"You should try to get some sleep." John claps a hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezes, but it's not reassuring. He turns to leave but hesitates. Dean doesn't move a muscle from where he's hunched uncomfortably on cracked pavement. "Take care of each other."

Dean spins around, but John's already disappeared into his room.

"Fuck," Dean swears softly.

----

"You talk to those boys?" Bobby asks, arms crossed around his chest. He's staring at the TV, but John can feel the weight of his attention. "I mean really talk to them? They deserve to know."

John grunts and pulls out his cell. Bobby gives up the pretense of staring at the TV, fixing his gaze squarely on John who turns away from him. The call connects. "Shadow. I'm calling in that favor."

****

Dean scrubs his face and climbs to his feet. He feels completely drained. The only thing keeping him awake is the knot of anticipatory tension in his chest. Tomorrow. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow. He'll piece his family back together tomorrow.

When he gets back in the room, Sam is sprawled on their bed, one arm flung across his eyes. He doesn't flinch or move when Dean closes the door. Dean rolls his eyes and flops down, making Sam his bed.

Dean enjoys being sprawled on top of Sam. It's nice, feeling Sam beneath him, solid and there. Close. The way Sam runs his hands up and down Dean's back is a nice bonus. Dean tucks his face right in the curve where Sam's neck meets his body. Neither one of them is relaxed, but the touch helps.

Dean closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing, in and out, in and out. They're going in tomorrow at noon, when the sun is high in the sky and whatever power demons get from the cover of darkness is gone. And they're going to win, and Mer's going to be back with them, where she belongs. Safe and unharmed. In his head, she sleeps through the whole thing and comes out as innocent as she went in.

His fingers dig into Sam's sides with the thought. He starts tensing, breath coming faster, and Sam tries to calm him down through touch. He cups the back of Dean's head, fingers spreading over his skull, gently and knowing.

"We're going to get her back. She's going to be okay," Sam whispers fiercely. It's been his litany since she disappeared, since the Demon used him to get to Mer. If he says it enough, it will be true.

"I know," Dean says to Sam's neck, pushing in closer, trying to fill his senses with Sam.

"It's going to—" Sam cuts off, body going stiff.

"Sam?" Dean gasps as Sam's fingers dig into his shoulder and hold his head down. Sam's nails slice into the flesh of his shoulder and Dean can smell blood on the air. "Sam!"

"NO!" Sam screams. Dean feels the air leave him as Sam flips them off the bed and the full force of his weight comes down on Dean. He struggles to breathe when Sam grabs his shoulders and slams him against the ground. "You can't have her!"

"Sam! SAMMY!" Sam's eyes are glassy and unseeing, like when he's having a vision. But he's never had one this powerful. Sam starts struggling, as if fighting off enemies. He wraps his hands around Dean's throat and squeezes. Dean gasps and strikes ineffectively at Sam's wrist, but he's rapidly losing oxygen. He tries to tuck in a knee, find some way to unseat or get through to Sam, but nothing works. He lands a few blows on Sam's rib cage before his vision starts to spot.

"Dean!" Dean's vision swims as air floods his lungs, a ragged sound escaping from him. Bobby helps him sit up; John has Sam pinned against the bed, trying to avoid sharp elbows and fists. Sam's screaming denials, eyes wild. He yells 'Mer' in a desperate, angry voice and Dean's blood runs cold.

"You okay?" Bobby asks, and Dean nods, distracted by whatever horror Sam must be seeing. Bobby grunts, gets up, and slaps Sam hard across the face. Shockingly, it's enough to snap him out of whatever vision he was having. Sam frowns, looking from Bobby to Dad and then, finally, to Dean, sprawled on the floor.

"You back with us?" Bobby asks Sam, who stares numbly up at him.

Dean pushes himself to his feet and gets a look at Sam. His eyes are wide and there's color in his cheeks; he's panting with exertion. Sam blinks, then pales.

"We have to go," Sam gasps. He takes in the bruises forming around Dean's throat and winces, but doesn't stop. He twists out of his father's grip and goes over to the weapons, stumbling slightly.

"Son," Bobby says, "should you—"

"No, we have to go. NOW." For a moment, Dean's frozen by the sheer fear and desperation in Sam's voice. The possibilities, the images—

"FUCK." Dean vaults over to the table and starts arming himself.

"They're starting it," Sam says, words tripping over each other as he struggles to get them out. He grabs a sharpie and starts sketching a map right on the wall. "We have to go, get her out. There's a center room, it's guarded, only one door to get in."

"I've got something for that," Bobby says gruffly, studying Sam's map.

"The building goes right over a lay line. There are five upper-level demons in there, one for each point of a pentagram, including Yellow Eyes. Mer'll be in the center. She's...she's the focus." Sam turns to Dean, eyes troubled. "You need—they've written things on her. I think they're doing a vessel spell. I don't think they're going to try and kill her. But we need to get to them before they close the circle."

"Or?" The bleak look in Sam's eyes tells Dean everything he needed to know. "Right. No closing the circle."

****

Most hunters go their entire careers without ever encountering a demon. They're four people going against one of the nastiest this world has ever heard of. It's a suicide mission, and they all know that, but none of them entertain the thought of not going.

The building looks innocuous and silent from the outside, but Dean swears he can feel an aura of malevolence crawling over his skin. In his head, the silent place where Mer resides twinges. It strengthens Dean's resolve. Judging by the way Sam's lips press close together and his short, jerky movements, Sam feels the same way.

Bobby hands them all special shotgun shells, filled with some sort of salt and herb mixture that's supposed to make demons uncomfortable staying in their hosts. They all have heavy hex bags hanging around their necks, from their belts, tucked into their pockets.

"We clear on the plan?" John asks.

"We callin' that a plan now?" Bobby grunts grimly, testing the pump action of his shotgun. Their 'plan,' sketchy though it is, is to get at least one of them to the center room before the circle closes. By one of them, they mean Sam, whose freaky mind powers give him the best chance to save Mer.

They're armed with Bobby's new, untested shotgun ammo, a barrier spell on repeat via portable speakers, chalk, and Sam's brain. That Dean doesn't make a quip about that last point is proof of how deadly serious he is.

"Our objective is to get in that room. We'll figure the rest out as we go," John says, priming his gun. Dean's done talking. He checks his weapons: two sawed-off shotguns across his back, one hanging off his right arm, the fourth one ready in his hands. He strides boldly towards the building, Sam hot on his heels. With every step his awareness of Mer grows. Not like it was; she's still blocked in some way. But he knows where she is, just like he knows Sam is right beside him.

They burst through the door in a defensive formation, Sam low to the right, Dean low to the left, John and Bobby covering them. It's dark and sinisterly silent. Across the empty space they can see the curve of a wall. The space they're currently in is just too wide to be a hall. They can tell the second room within the building is curved, but they can't see the rest of the building.

"Left," Dean orders, and none of them question him. Sam takes point, trying to see in the murky darkness. They move as silently as possible, trying to get to the door before alerting anyone.

"Down!" Bobby yells in the darkness, and the roar of his gun is almost deafening. His spray hits the demon square on the chest. The creature looks down in shock, then lets out an unearthly scream. Black smoke pours out of the host's mouth.

"Well. Guess that works," Bobby says smugly. From there, it's a full out firefight. The shotgun spray makes the demons scream and writhe on the ground, steam coming from their skin where the salt concoction digs in. Some of the demons vacate their hosts, expelling a dark black cloud into the air. Others lay on the ground, gasping, only to stand up again and rejoin the fight.

They're moving, incrementally, towards the door. Sam's almost done with his second gun, Dean's already on his third, when a demon breaks through the line. It launches itself at Dean, a wicked-looking knife in hand.

Sam's first reaction isn't to shoot. Instead, he throws his hand up and thinks _stop_ with everything in him. The world slows around him; he can see the way the demon's borrowed muscles work, the sweat dripping down Dean's neck, the widening of his irises as he prepares for the fight. The demon freezes in mid air, then goes sailing back into its brethren. The world speeds up again.

Sam sags for a step, stumbling at the drain but not exhausted. When Dean drops his third gun and reaches for his last, Sam presses his gun into Dean's hands.

"Sammy, what?" Sam raises his hand and stops another demon, then flings it backwards. He does it again, and again, until his shirt is soaked with sweat and his hands are shaking. He keeps all the demons back, erecting a closed circle around them as they slowly make their way to the door. Sam can see it now, glistening dully in the low light.

He stops a knife from burying itself in his father's heart. John keeps on fighting.

They're close to the door when Sam starts to falter. His vision is blurry and he can barely make out the enemy. Sweat stings his eyes, but he marches doggedly on. Dean needs him to do this.

Sam doesn't realize he's fallen to his knees until Dean's hand closes around his neck and hauls him to his feet.

"Come on, Sammy!" Dean yells, eyes alight with fire. Sam loops his arm around Dean's shoulders. He looks up and sees a demon coming straight at them, a wicked knife in each hand.

Something in Sam snaps. Power floods through him, bringing with it a cold kind of stillness. He sees a demon rushing them, eyes black and venomous. Sam blinks. He can _see_ the demon inhabiting the body, a dark ichor filling in the man's veins like stuffing. It's so tenuous, the connection the demon has with its stolen host. It's unnatural and damned, the very Earth protests its presence here.

Sam raises his hand and...he's not sure what he does. It's a combination of willing the demon gone and taking away its permission to exist in this world. He can see the strands that bind it to the world, and he pulls. He unravels it thread by thread. The demon screams as it dies, little bursts of energy lighting its stolen body's skull from the inside out.

Sam staggers to one side when it's over, the energy that took leaving him dizzy.

"Sam, we don't have time for this! Sammy!" A blast from Dean's shotgun, right by his ear, partially deafens him. He pulls himself upright and stands on his own two feet. And the demons keep on coming.

One of them breaks through and gets close enough to claw at Dean while Sam's out of it, his nails leaving vicious red scratches over Dean's face. Dean uses his gun like a club, fighting the demon back long enough to shoot him in the chest and drive them back. Dad's holding his line on his own, Bobby concentrating on his Devil's Trap, when the demons surge and he can't keep them back. One of the demons strikes Bobby on the side of the head and he collapses in a heap.

"Bobby!" Dean yells, but it's from far away. Sam can hear the sound of the air rushing through his lungs. Can feel the pulse of his blood beneath his skin. A tingling itch starts in his feet and works its way up. Sam blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, the world is tinged yellow, everything fuzzy around the edges, the people around him moving slowly, like they're trapped in molasses

And he feels fucking powerful. Energy crawls along his spine, curls in his belly until he feels like he's about to explode. Sam looks to his right where Dean's trying to keep tabs on everyone and reload his shotgun. To his left, Dad's trying to check on Bobby and keep the legions of Hell at bay.

Sam tilts his head back, up towards a Heaven he's not sure he believes in any more, and lets the power thrumming through his body loose on the world, raw and uncontrolled. The onslaught of demons stumble and flinch, bodies collapsing lifelessly mid-stride.

Dean fires off his last few rounds and scrambles for more ammunition until he realizes that none of the demons are moving. Sam expands his senses and coldly takes out the last of the demons, the ones who are now trying to run away. When all the threats are neutralized, Sam has nothing to concentrate on, so he turns to Dean.

"Holy—Sam. Sammy." Dean steps back from him, looking nervous. He raises a hand as if to touch, but resists. Sam frowns. "Your eyes...."

A sudden blast of heat, like the backdraft from an explosion, sends Dean crashing into Sam. Sam catches him, holds firm against the onslaught.

"No," Dean gasps, righting himself. They both know, without a shadow of a doubt, that the circle has been closed, the ritual started. "NO!"


	18. Book One: Chapter 18

Dean splits his knuckles pounding futilely on the door, leaves a smear of dark red blood on its burnished surface. The door is ornate and delicately wrought, esoteric symbols carved deep into its surface. It looks beautiful if you don't know what they mean or you can't sense the intent behind them.

"MER!" Dean yells, raising his hand again. John comes up behind him and drags him away, Dean struggling to get out of his grasp.

"Dean!" John grunts, folding over when Dean's elbow jabs into his sternum. "Goddamnit, Dean, STOP!"

"Dean," Sam hears himself say, but it's not his voice. This voice hums with power. It makes the walls tremble and the very air dance. Sam raises his hand and narrows his eyes. The door creaks, as if under a great weight, then buckles inwards like tinfoil.

"Jesus, Sammy," John breathes, sadness weighing down his words. Sam's eyes are glowing yellow, bright spots in the darkness. John's read this, been warned of this, but to see it... His children stride into the room, shoulders brushing, and John can only follow.

The room is dark and filled with shadows. Five fires burn at each point of a giant pentagram. A demon anchors each point, each one with a different, unnatural eye color: black, white, red, orange and yellow. At the tip of the pentagram, the lifeless eyes of a young boy with blonde hair stare up at the ceiling. His throat has been slit, his life given to empower the circle. At the center of it all, on a raised altar, lays Mer.

"Mer," Dean hisses. His heart skips in angry horror. She lies motionless on the altar, looking small and fragile; it looks like she's glowing, a soft white halo of light surrounding her. They've shaved her head, and Dean notes in a ludicrously absurd way that the newly revealed skin is paler than the rest of her. The demons have written strange words on her flesh, painted malevolent symbols all over her body. Dean wants nothing more that to scrub the vile markings off of her.

"They've closed the circle," Dean says, monotone. He can't think of anything else. Both of them can feel the buzz of the invoked circle like an electric current sending shocks up the bottom of their feet.

"Yes," Sam says, still feeling strangely removed. "I know." He turns slightly so he can watch John drag Bobby's limp body into the room. Bobby's not dead, simply stunned. He's not a part of this, though. Sam knows that with an unquestionable surety. Bobby has his part to play, but not right now. He turns his gaze back to Dean and finds himself staring. Dean glows bright gold, lines of fate radiating outwards in thick, binding lines. They wrap around Sam and Mer and even the Yellow Eyed Demon.

Glancing at the demons in the circle, anchoring the watchtowers, Sam finds he knows their names, their ranks and proclivities, but that's not important. Things need to play out in a very specific order. Information must be revealed and discovered. For a moment, Sam transcends himself and sees the whole scope and breadth of their world, understands how everything connects. Knows what's going to happen before it does.

Knowing doesn't prepare him for the sight of his father sprinting full-tilt for the pentagram. A life to call it, a life to break it. He wants to stop him, has the power to stop him, but he's frozen in the moment, watching with wide-eyed horror.

"DAD!" Dean screams. The barrier flares with incandescent brightness as John's body hits it. There's a flash of light and a loud crack when the spell breaks. John's body twists as it falls. His eyes are closed when he hits the ground. He looks as if he's sleeping.

Dean's knees crack against the floor and he falls beside his father's body. He's still warm to the touch. Dean can imagine the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Dad twitching back to life, ha ha, joke's on you. But it's not a joke. His father is dead.

Sam can only stand and stare, shocked. He hadn't thought...

An angry howl snaps Sam's attention away from Dean and Dad. The demons are screaming, backlash from the interrupted spell. The red-eyed demon froths in rage and leaps towards Dean, intent to kill. Sam throws him across the room with barely any effort. He's not disconnected anymore, not humming with so much power he can't think of anything else. He's fucking pissed and his rage wants to lash out.

Another demon flies at him, and Sam knows its name: Cresil, demon of impurity and laziness. It snarls and throws its stolen body at Sam. Sam _wills_ it gone; he can't kill these strong ones, not yet. But he can send them back to Hell where they belong. Cresil leaves a dark stain on the ground and Sam feels alive. His nerves sing with power and every time he releases his energy, lashes out at the swirling mass of darkness, he feels it returned to him two-fold.

He does the same with the others, called Haures, Kasdeya, and Mastema. They scream as he banishes them to hell, forces them down into the deepest, darkest pit he can find. Which leaves only one.

Sam turns his gaze to the Yellow Eyed Demon, the one who started his family on this path. Sam has a name now. Azazel.

"Hello, Sammy," the demon greets, a wide smile on his face. "Look at you, all grown up."

"Azazel." A brief expression of surprise flits over the demon's face, like Sam shouldn't know his name. Sam smiles thinly. "You're going to die tonight." The demon's eyes drift over to the still form of their father.

"Ah, well. We always have to sacrifice for the things we want most." It sounds almost sage, like it's one of the great secrets of life. Sam grits his teeth and glares. "Very scary, Sam. But you forgot something." The demon throws a hand out to one side. Dean goes flying across the room from where he'd been trying to free Mer and hits the wall hard. Instead of sliding down to the floor, he stays there, spread eagle and defenseless.

"Now, Dean," Azazel says, mockingly paternal, "it's not time to free the damsel yet. I've got plans for Miss Mary."

"Let her go, you sick fuck!" Dean snarls, thrashing where he's trapped. It feels like there's a suffocating band of steel around his chest, holding him in place. He struggles ineffectively, fear making his heart race. He can only watch, helpless, as Sam and the demon lock gazes, neither one of them paying much attention to Dean; he's a pawn in a greater battle of wills.

"Let them go," Sam says softly, and his voice sounds strange to Dean's ear.

"Make me," the demon hisses, and brings the force of his power to bear on Sam. Sam staggers back under the onslaught of the demon's abilities, his power digging underneath Sam's defenses. Distantly, Sam hears Dean scream in agony. He feels something press down against him, forcing him to his knees. The tendons in his shoulder give and Sam screams, pain ripping through him. The demon laughs triumphantly, and Sam grits his teeth. His father is dead. Dean and Mer are next if he can't pull it together. He cannot fail.

Sam rallies against the pain and pushes back. At first, just enough to stop the torment. Then, slowly, he starts gaining ground, pushing back, causing his own damage. Azazel's smirk fades away as Sam gains the upper hand, one inch at a time. At first slowly, then gaining speed and momentum until Azazel stumbles, arms pinwheeling as he tries to remain upright. Sam hears the thud of Dean's feet hitting the ground.

_Go get Mer,_ Sam orders, feels Dean's surprise and his assent.

"You've impressed me, Sam. Surpassed everything I expected of you." Sam turns his attention back to Azazel. He looks like a proud papa, gazing at Sam with bared teeth and a calculating expression.

"You die tonight," Sam says, sounding almost bored.

"Ah," Azazel says, his smile widening even as his eyes grow harder. "We always have to sacrifice to get what we most want."

Sam braces for attack, but instead Azazel directs his powers at Dean and the altar, where Mer is bound. The thin wires that tie her down tighten and bite into her skin. Dean screams as Azazel's power hooks into him like claws.

"Dean!" Sam roars as dark blood spills down his brother's chest. Sam breaks Azazel's arm, but the demon just laughs and rips another hole in Dean's skin. Sam burrows in further, hits the places he instinctively knows will cause Azazel the most amount of pain, but none of it makes him stop. He punches Azazel in the mouth, again and again, but the demon breaks free of Sam's grip and backhands him.

"Come on, little Samael," Azazel laughs, blood spilling out of his mouth. "You can do better than that!" Dean screams, and this time blood appears on Mer's chest, deep gouges that make her moan through whatever drugs they've given her.

Sam throws back his head and screams, an inhuman sound that makes Azazel laugh in delight. Sam snaps straight and reaches into Azazel. Into the essence of the demon itself. Azazel loses his hold on Mer, then Dean, as Sam pushes in deeper, searches for the part of the demon that will be its undoing. He touches something so dark and putrid it makes his gorge rise. His entire being demands he withdraw, but he ignores it and digs in further.

"That's my boy!" Azazel cackles gleefully, and Sam doesn't understand it until darkness explodes around him. Azazel vacates his former host and surges into Sam, wraps himself around Sam's mind and soul and laughs.

_Well, this is cozy,_ Azazel says in his head. His voice is a mesh of all the evil things Sam has encountered in his life. _You and I are going to be roomies for a while, Sammy. It's going to be just swell! Look what I have planned for you!_

Vivid images of Dean, beaten and bloody, eviscerated by Sam's own hand stream through his head. He sees Mer, sacrificed for power. To raise more demons. To raise Hell. To give Azazel form. She's powerful and pure, and with that comes a long list of rituals she could be used for. Azazel goes through them one by one, complete with resulting fallout. But worse are the images of her growing up, enslaved to demons, brainwashed and—God, if Sam was in control of his body he'd be throwing up.

_How about it, Sammy? Ready to take over the world?_

_Fuck you,_ Sam thinks, and ignores Azazel's laugh, desperately trying to find a way out of his prison. He tries to wrest control from Azazel, but only succeeds in locking them in a stalemate, his body falling stiffly to the ground.

_So dramatic,_ Azazel sighs and does something that makes Sam's nerve-ending light up in pain. He screams silently, trapped in his own mind. _Oh, that tickles! How long can you keep this up, Samael?_ The name sparks a flash of recognition in Sam, knowledge that's there for a microsecond before it's lost again.

_Don't call me that,_ Sam snaps; the name feels vile and foreboding. He pulls out every trick he's learned from Mer when he's tried to hide from her, playing the psychic equivalent of hide-and-seek, tag, and can't-touch-me. Something should work, but Azazel's there at every turn, anticipating and interrupting Sam's plans. Sam can't shake him, can't get away no matter how hard he tries.

_We'll have to work on this, Samael. You're all raw power—no technique. Watch and learn._ Sam gasps as his world swims. He's suddenly in a house, and it feels completely real. He looks around and realizes it's Missouri's, but the welcoming warmth is missing. He hears something behind him, and there's a long dagger in his hand. He spins around and stares, helpless, as warm blood rushes over his hand. Missouri looks at him in shocked accusation. One of her hands clutches his where it wraps around the knife's hilt. Her eyes go glassy and her insides make a ripping, tearing sound as she slides off the knife.

_NO!_ Sam screams. He tries to reach for her, but she's already dead by the time her body hits the ground. Another sound, and he knows it's Dean before he even turns around. _No, please no,_ Sam thinks to himself, and the vision fades out just as the knife encounters resistance.

_You plead so pretty, Samael,_ the demon says with a satiated sigh. _But you see, I can be kind._

_Why are you doing this? Why us?_ Sam asks, feeling unbalanced. He needs to pull it together. He's a Hunter. He's better than these mind games. He's prevented the demon from using his body, he's strong enough to defeat it. He has to be, there's no one else.

_Oh, Sammy, here's the thing. All this? It's not about your _family_. This is all about you!_ Sam stops struggling for a moment, horrified at the images Azazel keeps sending him. Not just images, Azazel's memories: of his plan to bring Sam here, get him to this point, where Azazel could own him completely. The extent of Sam's powers, which not even Azazel knows, but he certainly knows more than Sam. The other kids, like Max, ripe for the taking. _The fire, the powers, the spell, the kidnapping—everything was done for you. Though really, I thought Dean would be the one to rush the circle. But I figured, either way, the world would be down a Winchester at the very least. Your father, though...that was deliciously unexpected. How did that_ feel, _I wonder?_

Sam screams in his head as Azazel rifles through his memories and pulls out Dad's death, so fresh Sam hasn't even begun to process it yet. It feels like an eternity, tormented with every graphic moment of Dad rushing forward, the crackle of energy as his body hit the circle, the jerk of his limbs. The faint smell of charred meat, something Sam hadn't even registered but the demon amps it up and makes sure Sam smells it over and over. It's too much, too soon, and Sam feels himself getting numb to it all, so the demon moves on—to Sam's most personal thoughts and experiences. The ones Sam can't hide, even from himself.

_Oh you naughty, naughty boy,_ the demon laughs as it starts sorting through his memories of Dean. Sam watches a home movie of their relationship: from this morning, rushed and frantic in the hotel room; his awkward teenage years, wanting so desperately he burned; the way they danced around each other after graduation; their very first time, the one pre-Stanford, that still makes Sam hate himself just a little even if all has been forgiven.

_Sammy Sammy Sammy. Let's see what kind of person you really are._ The scene unfolds in Technicolor surround sound, and Sam can't ignore it. Can't not feel every detail The demon has effectively taped Sam's eyes open and is forcing him to watch the most depraved, painful moment of his life.

Dean stumbled into their home for the week at four in the morning smelling like stale smoke and old beer. His pupils were blown wide and his words flowed into one another like syrup. Sam sighed and dragged himself out of bed to help Dean get into his.

Sam swallowed thickly when Dean drunkenly draped himself over Sam's shoulders. They were almost the same height, something Dean pouted about when he thought Sam wasn't looking. Dean looked up at Sam and slurred something incomprehensible. But it ended with a wide smile that made Sam's heart jump.

"Come on, Dean," Sam said thickly. He propelled them towards the beds. Dean looked down at his feet, trying to find some kind of coordination. "Time for you to sleep it off."

"Sam," Dean mumbled, swinging his head up so he could see Sam. "Sammy. My Sammy." Oh fuck. Sam closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that this wasn't happening. Dean didn't mean anything by it. He was just going to dump Dean in bed and go take a cold bath in De Nile.

Of course, nothing ever went right for Sam. Dean tripped and sent them both crashing down on the nearest bed, tangled together. Dean giggled drunkenly and wiggled around, trying to get comfortable. His hip rubbed against Sam's crotch, a sliding, grinding motion that made Sam gasp. Sam squeezed his eyes closed and bit his lip, trying to control his reaction.

It was a losing battle.

Sam knows this, has lived through this before, but it still hurts to watch the whole mess happen all over again. It would be easier to think the demon edited something, made things seem worse than they were. But he doesn't have to, and Sam watches it all.

The way he kissed Dean, desperate and unthinking. How Dean pulled away at first, couldn't quite slur out a no but the intent was there, in his eyes and his slow, drunken attempts to pull away. How Sam ignored it, chased Dean across the bed, twined them together until Dean couldn't leave. Kissed Dean until he gasped and moaned.

Sam can still taste the liquor he kissed from Dean's tongue, bitter and sharp.

_Stop it!_ Sam yells in his head, but the images don't falter. There's the morning after, when Dean looked at him with such devastation Sam felt it in his very bones; he realizes now he probably WAS feeling Dean's emotions, which doesn't make it any better.

After the morning there were days of stilted conversation, avoidance, self-recrimination. The nights of Dean coming home reeking of sexual dissatisfaction, times Sam could feel the weight of Dean's gaze on his back. Then Sam's decision to leave—in large part galvanized by that night, but also spurned by a need Sam can't even identify today—that degenerated into a screaming fit with Dad and four years of silence from Dean.

_Oh, the angst,_ Azazel mocks. _You fucked your brother in more ways than one, Samael._

_Get. OUT!_ Sam roars in his head. He struggles frantically for control, but the demon is everywhere. It takes all Sam's concentration to make his fingers move, and Azazel takes even that from him.

_No, I think I like it here,_ Azazel says gleefully. Sam feels his entire body shudder, trying to expel the demon. He bows up, spine stiff and unyielding. It's his fucking body. HIS.

_You know you're not doing this for her,_ the demon says, a seemingly random change of conversation. Sam has quickly learned there's no such thing with Azazel. _Oh no, if it were up to you, you'd leave little Mary here and take Dean away so you could have him all to yourself. Selfish, Sammy. So selfish._ Sam tries to deny it. He loves Mer. Loves Mer so much it hurts. She's a part of Dean, and he loves everything Dean is, so even if he tried not to, he'd still love her. Except for the part of him that believes the demon. That thinks maybe it's true. The part that sometimes wishes it was just him, Dean and the Impala on the open road, nowhere to be, no one to report to. He hates himself for it.

The demon laughs as it finds the memory of Jess's death. Another one of Sam's failures. It freezes the moment where Sam realized what was happening, when he looked up and saw her pinned to the ceiling, blood dripping from the hole in her middle. Her expression, frozen in death, accuses Sam of all the things he didn't do to protect her.

_This looks eerily familiar_, Azazel muses, and suddenly it's not Jess on the ceiling any more, it's Mom. And it's not just a still image; he gets the demon's feelings and thoughts too, so powerful Sam starts to lose the definition of himself. He knows what it is to be Azazel.

He sees the baby, the one he likes best, and gazes down on it. Strong kid, he'll survive the quickening, and grow up to be a strong man. Tall. Powerful.

Azazel cuts his hand and watches as three drops of blood fall into the baby's mouth. He's satisfied and content in ways Hell had ripped out of him eons ago. This is it, the culmination of years of work, decades of planning. This child will grow up and change the world in devastating ways.

A soft gasp sounds behind him and he doesn't think twice about throwing Mary Winchester against the wall. She's served her purpose here, and this game will be far more interesting if she's gone.

_Sammy?_ A voice cuts through the pain, deep and familiar. It sounds tinny and weak, like it's fighting its way to get to him. _Sam!_

_Atta_. Another mind touches his, raw and shaken, but lined with steel. Behind that, another, someone Sam knows as he knows himself, blazing with fury and protective love. Dean. They rip him away from the cloying darkness he hadn't known was there. They place themselves between him and the darkness, whisper words that he can't understand but sound soft and encouraging. Awareness crashes back in. He is not the demon Azazel, and he is not the person Azazel wants him to be. He is Sam. Atta. Dean's and Mer's. Sam fights his way up through the darkness.

Azazel snarls as he forces Dean and Mer away, irritated at their interference, but those few moments are all Sam needs to figure out the trick to the demon. Out and out rebellion, struggling and fighting—it doesn't work. It's expected, and he'll never overpower Azazel in that way. What was it Jess always said? Sometimes, you had to effectuate change from inside the system.

Sam takes the images the demon keeps throwing at him, all of the emotions they evoke and...absorbs them. He stops fighting them, stops denying them, just takes the hatred, anger, fear, revenge, jealousy, all of it, and accepts it. Acknowledges it, wraps his mental arms around them, and pulls it all close to him. Sam imagines a coal set underneath kindling. The whirling mass around him is the air; too much, it'll extinguish what he's built. Too little and the coal will suffocate. Controlled, guided, it will blossom into an inferno.

The maelstrom around him seethes, then quiets. Every new feeling and image, every atrocity Azazel forces him to experience, Sam feeds it into his flame. He takes charge of himself and everything falls away, leaving a blazing wall of fire licking all around the core of what comprises the unique entity called Sam Winchester. It blossoms dark blue and white, the hottest parts of a flame.

Sam feels the demon's confusion, then its fear.

_Get out of my head,_ Sam says darkly, and then pulls the demon towards him. At first it tries to fight. Azazel thrashes and battles with everything it has; Sam understands the drive to survive, but he hangs gamely on and won't let go, just keeps dragging Azazel down, through the flames.

As Azazel gets subsumed by Sam's defenses he throws every despicable, horrendous thought he can come up with at Sam. Images of Hell, the torture of souls, Dean turned over to the Demonic Hordes. The best moments of Sam's life rise like guardian angels: memories of riding in the Impala, the only home he knew growing up: fighting over the radio with Dean, slipping Kenny G and Yanni in between his AC/DC and Kiss tapes as a joke; Jess's kindness and her sunny smile; Dean's touch, intimate and gentle against his skin; Mer's laugh, ablaze with a love that makes Azazel scream. Sam starts to glow, brilliant iridescent light that burns the demon at the most basic level.

He feels Azazel start to burn away, the darkness no match for Sam's light.

_Even in this, Samael,_ Azazel hisses in his final moments, using Sam's method against him, digging in as deep as he can to find safe harbor, _even in this we will have you!_ Sam feel a disconcerting flash of triumph that turns into despair as the world goes brilliant white around them and his power erupts outwards.

****

Dean is caught up in the battle of wills between Sam and the demon, invisible claws tearing deep grooves into his chest when, abruptly, the force holding him against the wall disappears. His legs threaten to buckle under his sudden weight, and blood loss makes his head swim.

_Go get Mer,_ Sam's voice echoes in his head, strong and commanding. Dean nods because that makes sense. Sam can take care of himself; Mer needs help. Dean hopes Sam can feel his agreement because it takes all of Dean's concentration to ignore the pain in his chest and stagger over to his daughter.

She looks dead. That's his first thought. Her skin is pallid and waxy; her eyes look sunken and dark. Her lips are bloodless, almost as pale as the rest of her. Blood oozes from three parallel gouges in Mer's chest, mirror images of the ones on his body. Dean numbly strips off his shirt; the front of it is tattered and soaked with his blood, so he rips it down the seams and presses the unsullied portion against her chest to stem the bleeding. Mer moans and her brow wrinkles.

"Mer? Mary?" Dean calls, trying to keep his voice steady. "Come on, baby girl, I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you do that, Mer?" Dean holds his breath as her eyes slide open, just a sliver.

"There you are, Mer-Bear, come on, you can do it." Dean grasps Mer's hand to give her something tangible to latch on to but he ends up trying to rub warmth into it. She's so cold.

"Hurts," Mer croaks through cracked lips. Her face crumples and tears start leaking out of her eyes. Dean swallows, trying to find words that don't shake and crack, but it's hard. He slides his fingers along her skull, feeling the sharp prickle of new growth, thinking about how people lose most of their heat through their head.

"I know, baby girl, I know." The wires that bind her to the altar—bastards couldn't just use rope, could they—have bitten deep into her skin. If she starts struggling against them they'll cut into her more, maybe do serious damage. "Be still, Dada's going to get you out of these, okay?" Mer nods and closes her eyes, tears still escaping, but she's trying so hard to be brave. He swears softly, picking at the first tie. There are three separate wires around her wrists, tangled and melded together to make it difficult for someone to release her.

Dean starts the grim task of unwinding them, wincing as they pull away from Mer's raw skin. She does what he asks and stays still, but Dean thinks most of that is because she's still drugged. She's slow to respond, and doesn't seem to be tracking well, though Dean keeps up a soothing litany of mindless chatter. He reaches out with his mind and lets her know he's here. After so many days of silence it's almost a crippling relief to be able to feel her again. Mer responds to him, calming down just enough until she tries to find the other members of her family.

"Granpa!" Mer gasps, her eyes snapping open. She starts crying in earnest, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. Dean tries to hold her still, but she's thrashing wildly on the altar. "Granpa! GRANPA!" She pulls against the wires around her wrists and they start bleeding freely. Dean worries about the tendons in her wrists and ankles.

"Mer! Mary! Look at me!" Dean cups her face, wiping away the tears on her cheeks, his own falling unchecked. Mer's eyes are wide and full of pain. She looks at him, pleading with him to make it okay, asking for answers Dean doesn't have. "I know, baby girl. I know it hurts, but you gotta stay still, okay? I need to get you out of this, alright? You're—you're hurting yourself, and I can't have that, alright?" Mer swallows and Dean watches her push the pain away, determined to be strong for him. He's so proud of her, his strong, brave girl.

He's just freed her left hand when nausea and pain stabs through him. He clutches the side of the altar and sways, struggling to keep his feet. It's not something that's happened to him, he knows that, but it feels so strong he can't imagine what caused it. Or what it would feel like to experience it firsthand.

"Atta," Mer gasps, reaching out towards Sam. Dean looks up and watches in horror as the smoky incorporeal form of the Yellow Eyed Demon disappears into his brother's body.

"Sam! NO!" Dean yells. He's torn between freeing Mer and rushing to Sam to do...something, anything when Sam's body collapses on the ground. He's never seen anyone freshly possessed, but Dean thinks this is different. Sam is completely motionless, but even from here Dean can see the way his eyes rapidly shift from green to yellow and back. He twitches occasionally, limbs jerking one way then another, as if two entities are fighting for control.

"Dada! Help!" Dean's attention snaps back to Mer. She's picking at her other wrist, trying to free herself. She's almost untangled her right arm, so Dean moves down to her legs. These ties are less complicated and come off quicker. It's a matter of moments before he's got his arms around Mer, crushing her to his chest. She wraps her arms around his neck and holds on just as tight.

He holds Mer until Sam moves, his body curving up as every muscle tenses and locks. Sam's mouth is open in a silent scream, his head pressed into the concrete—the only point of contact his entire upper body has with the floor. His eyes are still disturbingly vacant, only the occasional flash of life to show that anybody's home. And sometimes those flashes are disturbingly yellow.

"Need to help Atta," Mer mumbles. She blinks and shakes her head, still feeling the effects of the drugs. They haven't quite worn off yet, the world is still twisted and gray.

"How?" Dean asks, a little frantic. Mer's head lolls limply onto his shoulder. Swearing, Dean repositions them, sitting on the altar and cradling Mer in his lap. He pats her face gently, trying to wake her up. "Come on Mer, come on. We have to save Atta. Atta's gotten himself in trouble and it's our job to get him out of it, remember, we had this talk. He's completely hopeless without us, so I need you to wake up."

Dean closes his eyes, fear bubbling up inside him. Right, no time for this. Dean grits his teeth and _reaches_. It feels like stretching, his mind unfolding. It's weird and disconcerting and he doesn't like it, but he can't think of anything else. He touches Mer—the place where Mer should be, but she's not there. Just emptiness.

"Mer! Mer, baby girl, where—" The world swims out of focus abruptly and when he comes to, it's like seeing but not seeing. He's perceiving a vast empty world with a dark storm on the horizon, angry and bruised. He feels something tug on his hand and when he looks down Mer is there, looking like she did before the kidnapping, hair framing her face.

"It's Atta," Mer says, pointing towards the storm. "He needs help."

"Okay," Dean agrees weakly. He's new to this whole out-of-body psychic stuff, but that storm...he doesn't think that's all the demon's doing. He thinks, maybe, it's part of Sam. "What are we going to do?"

"Like with the bugs," Mer says. Dean nods like he knows how to do that. Dean starts when Mer touches his face because she's three feet tall, he's pushing six, and her hand is on his face. It's freaky enough that Dean's brain tries to shut down, does not compute.

Then Mer's mind slides into place, right where she belongs, and Dean's entire body heaves a huge sigh of relief, even as he rails in frustration that now Sam's gone and hied off somewhere with a demon. He wants his family back and in his head where they belong.

"Where are we?" Dean asks, squinting at the boiling squall. He thinks it's moving towards them, but it's too far away to tell. He sees bright flashes of lightening in the darkness.

"Atta," Mer explains. "Dada, like this." Dean watches as, right before his eyes, Mer's body melts away.

"Mer!" Dean yells, trying to grab her. The formless blob of swirling colors coalesces into Mer again. "Jesus, don't do that!"

"You gotta let go," Mer says impatiently, looking towards Sam and the storm on the horizon. "You're too stiff." Mer demonstrates letting go by turning into a blob, to herself, and back to the blob of light again. Dean hates it, has a small panic attack every time she disappears, but there's not much he can do but push it aside and try to emulate her.

Letting go of his physical form is harder than Mer makes it seem. The world looks the way it does for a reason. Dean huffs in frustration when he opens his eyes and still has eyes.

"Dada, you gotta—" Mer spins around, eyes pinned to the storm, and it seems to swell before them, angry and raging. "Dada, gotta go _now_." The storm explodes outwards, the force of it shaking the ground. Sam's pain slams into them like something physical, and Mer screams.

_SAMMY!_ Dean yells and throws himself towards Sam as fast as he can. He's aware of Mer right beside him, the two of them hurtling forward. _Sam!_ He feels shaky and uncoordinated, feels himself tiring quickly. In this plane, wherever they are, Dean's emotions and feelings have weight and form. They spill out of him in a complicated knot; he's as eloquent here as in the real world.

_Atta_, Mer breathes, and sends the word spinning towards Sam. She untangles everything Dean's trying to say and shapes it into a spear, sharp and directed. She controls the flood of energy and directs it towards what must be the heart of Sam.

Dean gasps when he feels them connect with Sam. Sam clings to them like a lifeline. Dean closes his eyes and imagines himself as a shield, protecting Sam from whatever tries to hurt him. Something strong and evil slams into him, and Dean flags, only to be bolstered by Mer. They support one another, shore up their weak spots and give Sam a place to hide a recoup. They suffer the torrent together, curled in on one another, until Sam...Sam goes supernova, the world around them shining with incandescent light.

_Don't look,_ Mer whispers in his mind. Dean thinks Mer might be protecting him but consciousness disappears in a bright flash of excruciating pain.


	19. Book One: Chapter 19 and Epilogue

Bobby comes to with an agonized groan. Dizziness, splitting headache, deep fatigue, ringing in his ears...Christ, he's too old to be getting concussions. Brain doesn't snap back like it used to.

Bobby sits up and blinks to clear his vision, trying to remember if hallucinations are part of having a concussion. Because he's sitting in a crater. A deep, charred hole with bits of wood and concrete strewn around him. Well, hell.

Bobby struggles to his feet. God, his head _hurts_. He touches his forehead and his hand comes away bloody. Starting to clot, not new. Isn't going to kill him immediately. He tries to remember what happened but comes up blank. He thinks he may have gotten taken out early in the game—ain't that a bitch—but he distinctly remembers an actual building existing right where he's standin'. He carefully turns his head, looking around and trying to track down the people he came with. Fuck, he hopes Mer didn't get caught up in this.

"John? Dean? Sam?" Bobby calls. The yelling makes him wince and his head throb with great vengeance. Bobby stumbles and swears; this place is a minefield of debris and detritus. His balance must be off or—

Bobby stares at the calloused hand peeking out from behind a block of concrete, still and pale. He knows that hand. Bobby scrambles towards it, panic making his heart beat faster. He ignores the nausea and pain in his head. Bobby pushes a piece of wood off John's chest, knows instantly there's no hope.

"Goddamn it, John," Bobby mutters, looking down at the still countenance of one of his oldest friends. It really shouldn't hit him this hard. Hunters don't have a long lifespan, and for the most part they're all loaners and mentally disturbed. Paranoids, alcoholics, psychopaths. Bobby sits down heavily on an upended slab of concrete, staring down at John.

"You knew, you fucker," Bobby growls at him. A lot of things click into place: John's dark mutterings and his pensive looks; the unexpected confessions after hours of drinking; that damn Book John was so secretive about. Bobby's _pissed_, but that ain't nothing new when it comes to John Winchester.

A muted sound has Bobby on guard and suspicious. It comes again, the low thrum of a voice, and Bobby wishes he had something bigger than the serrated hunting knife stashed in his boot. He cautiously moves towards the sound, speeding up when he recognizes the low cadence of Dean's voice.

"Mer, Mer, Mer, Mer," Dean chants over and over, rocking her against him. He's completely oblivious to the rest of the world; Bobby doesn't try to disguise his approach, but Dean doesn't show any signs of having heard him, just rocks his kid and pets her head.

Mer looks small and pale in Dean's arms. Some of the markings have smeared, turning her skin a sickly red color. Bobby shudders to think what was mixed into the paint adorning her body. Her bald head makes her look extra vulnerable and not a little surreal. Dean has shifted to rubbing his hand over her cheekbones, trying to wake her.

"Dean," Bobby says softly, moving with careful slowness so as not to startle Dean. His eyes look wild and dangerous. "Dean." Bobby touches his shoulder lightly. Dean jumps at his touch, his entire body seizing. He clutches Mer closer to him and stares at Bobby with wide, uncertain eyes. He's wary but not defensive, which Bobby counts as a blessing.

"I'm going to touch Mary, Dean," Bobby tells him, reaching out towards her. Dean frowns and bares his teeth in warning. Bobby freezes, watching Dean watch him. After a moment, he reaches forward again, stopping when Dean growls at him. They continue on this pattern until Dean allows him to touch, eyes trained on his hand. His fingers settle on Mer's neck and find a strong, steady pulse. He heaves a sigh of relief. "She's just sleeping. S'all." Dean doesn't react, just stares at Bobby with that strangely empty expression. Bobby frowns and hopes to God that whatever happened here didn't burn out Dean's brain in the process. He's not up to raising a little girl, 'specially not one as precocious as Mer.

"Let's get you two to the car, alright?" Bobby suggests softly, his voice softening into a tone he hasn't used since his own girls died. He keeps talking soothingly to Dean and reaches to take Mer from his arms so Dean can stand up. But Dean makes a deep, guttural sound and pulls Mer close to him, the distrust and wariness back in his eyes. Bobby holds up his arms in a non-threatening manner. "Okay, okay. You keep the girl. Just...you gotta get up. We need to get out of here."

He can tell Dean doesn't understand him. Bobby tries pantomime, demonstration. Tries touching Dean, which doesn't go over well. Bobby throws his hands up in irritation and walks a few steps away to cool off. He's about five second away from braining Dean with a two by four and dragging his ass the car when he hears the ground crunch behind him. He turns around to find Dean a few steps behind him, Mer curled against his chest. He blinks at Bobby, as if waiting for him to do something.

"You are infuriating," Bobby says, and starts walking towards where he thinks they left the car. The edge of the crater is steep but not unnavigable, though Bobby thinks Dean may have trouble balancing Mer. They'll cross that bridge when they get to it.

Bobby carefully picks his way over the debris, eyes scanning the ground in front of them, but his ears are attuned to Dean's steps. Dean sticks with him the whole way, a few steps behind, until he suddenly veers to the left.

"Dean! Where are—aw, hell." Bobby scrambles to catch up with Dean, who looks like he's concentrating on something. Bobby swears when he sees what.

Sticking up from the charred earth is a pale, gun-calloused hand, peeking out from under what looks like the remains of the altar. Dean stares at it, a mix of emotions flashing over his face. He needs to help Sam, but he can't let go of Mer, which makes it impossible for him to dig Sam out. Which leaves Bobby. Dean turns wet green eyes, filled with pleading, towards Bobby. Shit, the things he does for this family.

Bobby holds his breath as he searches for a pulse. At first he thinks it's all for naught, but he finds one, slower than he likes but it's better than nothing. Bobby grunts as he pushes crumbled bits of granite off of Sam. He has a long gash on his head and various deep lacerations that soak his torn clothing.

"Sam," Bobby calls, shaking Sam slightly. He used his luck getting Dean to walk; he's not expecting Sam to wake up, but it never hurts to try. Bobby taps him on the face. Yep, no luck. Bobby resigns himself to at least two more trips out this way. "Well fuck."

----

Both cars are right where they left them, a thin layer of dust coating their exteriors. Bobby coaxes Dean into the back of the Impala with relative ease; something in Dean recognizes the car and he settles happily in the back seat, Mer cradled in his lap. Bobby watches for a moment as Dean strokes Mer's bald head, a raw look of loss and mourning on his face. Bobby avoids looking at Dean's eyes after that.

Next on Bobby's list is emptying John's truck of all weapons and hunting paraphernalia. He dumps it all in the Impala's trunk save for a few lengths of rope and a tarp. On his way back to Sam he snags a couple of long poles and makes himself a crude travois. It's not nearly long enough to fit Sam comfortably, but unconscious people can't be choosers.

By the time Bobby gets back to the Impala, he's bruised and sore and soaked in sweat. His hands are raw and he almost loses Sam several times getting up the crater's sides. He hasn't had a workout this strenuous in years; one of the many reasons he quit field work. He heaves and slides Sam into the front seat of the car and buckles him in; his head lolls forward loosely. That, the sight of Sam's head hanging like a rag doll's, is what shatters all of Bobby's defenses.

He slides down the side of the Impala and concentrates on his breathing. He shoves his emotions back in their box with an ease born of years of denial and evasion. He's the only one in their right mind here. He has to take care of Dean and Sam and Mer. Has to get them to safety. Has to keep it together until then. He has to go get John's body.

With a weary sigh Bobby grabs the travois and heads back down into Hell.

****

Bobby sets the truck on fire, pops three No Doze, fires off a quick text to a buddy who will rescue his car from the motel and hold it till he can come get it, and wipes his mind clear of anything but driving home.

He's not sure how long he's been on the road, the only sound in the car is breathing, when the shrill ringing of a phone shatters the silence. Dean starts in the back, making angry sounds as he looks around for danger. A car honks as the Impala swerves into the other lane, Bobby's attention split between finding the phone and calming Dean. He finds the phone just as it stops ringing, but it starts again almost immediately.

"Bobby, are you okay?" Bobby pulls over to the side of the road at Missouri's question. He can't talk, can't say anything, or he's not going to make it home. Home. He needs to go home. Has to get home, doesn't question the instinct. Instinct has kept him alive this long. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Forget I said anything. You just start that car back up and head down the highway, okay? Just drive." Bobby nods and does as she says, clinging to the phone. He can feel the exhaustion of the day weighing against him, barely held at bay. He's buried under a carefully constructed shield; everything is balanced perfectly to keep him from spilling over the edges, but if anything should change—like Missouri hanging up—Bobby doesn't know what will happen.

"Don't you worry, I'm going to stay on the line. I'm headed to you, Bobby Singer, so you just hold on to yourself and those boys until you get home, y'hear?" Bobby nods again, even though Missouri can't see him. She'll know. He drives a few more miles in silence, the soft sound of Missouri's breathing in his ear. He can't say when the thoughts started, but once he's aware of them he can't make them stop.

He doesn't know what's going to happen with Dean, Sam and Mer. What if they never wake up? What if Dean's that mindless, animalistic thing in the backseat for the rest of his life? If Sam's trapped in a coma for the rest of time? If Mer has to grow up without her family, only an old, worn out hunter to show her the way.

"Bobby Singer, stop that line of thought immediately! They're going to be fine. They're all just wiped out—you wouldn't believe the power those three unleashed on the world. If you were them you'd sleep for a month!" Bobby will take her word for it, he already did his sleeping. Missouri laughs. "Your sense of humor's something else, Mr. Singer."

Missouri stays on the phone with him the whole way from Ladysmith to Sioux Falls, six hours in which his phone threatens to die twice. He pulls up his drive by rote, turns off the car, and stares at his house without really _seeing_ it.

"Bobby?" He blinks and Missouri is standing right outside the window, looking at him with concern. She opens the door and pulls him out of the car. "Oh, you poor, poor man." She brushes her fingers across his temples and a warm feeling of fuzziness settles over him, like a really good buzz.

He carries Sam out of the car fireman-style and puts him in one of the spare rooms. According to Missouri, Sam is so far gone mentally she can't even feel the possibility of him, but he's physically fine. Won't nothing cure him right now, and they shouldn't waste time worrying today. All they can do is tuck him in bed and keep him alive.

When he gets downstairs Missouri has coaxed Dean out of the car. Her eyes are glued to Mer, tears formed but not allowed to fall. Bobby glances outside at the not quite empty Impala.

"He's fine," Missouri says softly, touching Bobby's shoulder. Dean skirts them as he goes through the door, careful not to brush against them. They both stare out at the car, gleaming in the inappropriately cheery sunlight. "I'll take care of him. You should go to bed. Get some sleep." Another touch against his head and Bobby knows he'll sleep well and soundly tonight. No nightmares. Perhaps for the last time in a long while.

He leaves the boys to Missouri and walks to his room, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

----

Missouri watches Bobby go with trouble in her heart, but there's nothing she can do for him now. He'll get more out of a good night's sleep than anything else anyways. She turns to Dean and her troubles increase. His mind is hiding from the world. He's in there, somewhere, but damned if Missouri can find him. He'd seen or experienced something that had overloaded his brain and it's taking a quick break from reality. The only question is how permanent a break.

"Dean," Missouri calls even as she sends him a mental nudge. He looks at her blankly. "Let's get you and Mer cleaned up." He responds to Mer's name, looking down at her and stroking his hands over her head. He frowns and rubs at some of the dark ichor marring her skin.

"Yes, let's get that off of her. You want that, right? Come on, follow me." She gently guides Dean to another of Bobby's guest rooms, close to where they'd put Sam. She sits Dean on the bed and goes into the bathroom to get a warm washcloth. Sadness and loss bubbles up inside her and threatens to spill over but she chokes it back.

John had known what he was getting into today. It's cold comfort, but it's comfort all the same. Missouri fills a bowl with warm water and avoids looking at her reflection again.

"Dean? You ready?" Missouri sits on the side of the bed and watches Dean cradle his daughter. She carefully begins the process of washing the words and symbols off Mer's skin. She keeps her movements gentle and predictable, not wanting to startle Dean, who watches her hands with sharp eyes. He's on the razor edge of insanity, his mind filled with thoughts of protecting his child because it blocks out everything else.

She starts at the crown of Mer's head, her washcloth quickly turning dark and filthy. Dean relaxes as each mark disappears. When she finishes with Mer's head and face, Dean makes a low sound in his throat and nuzzles against her.

"I know, baby," Missouri says. "I know." She starts on Mer's arm, ignoring the way her hands tremble.

****

Dean snaps awake, alert and searching out what woke him. He turns his senses outward, looking for a sign. He misses the first quiet whimper beside him. The second is louder and Dean quickly turns Mer over and checks on her. No serious cuts or bruises, no fever. He can't quite remember why he's so tense.

"Mer," Dean says urgently. He draws his finger lightly along her lips, the way he sometimes wakes her up when she's being unusually recalcitrant in the morning. She twitches, then swats at him. He frowns; what happened to her hair? What's that dark smudge under her ear? Panic rips through Dean and he needs his daughter awake, now. "Come on Mer-Bear, wake up. Wake up!"

"Hot," Mer complains sleepily, turning her face into Dean's side. The flood of relief makes Dean light headed and he sags against the bed. Mer moans and looks up at Dean, disgruntled. It's so normal and so Mer that Dean laughs, a wrenching sobbing sound, and yanks her to him. Mer squeaks against Dean's chest. He shakes as he rocks her, fighting back tears he doesn't know why he's crying. She wraps her arms around his neck and sighs.

"You're okay," Dean says, mostly to himself. "Okay, it's okay, you're safe, Daddy's here, it's okay." Mer pulls back and looks solemnly at Dean, who looks right back. She very precisely puts her hands on either side of his head, right at his temples. The warm wash of emotions doesn't come. He feels a twinge and a luke-warm surge, but it lacks the power and vitality that usually accompanies Mer's mental touch.

"I'm fuzzy," Mer says, frowning. She blinks slowly, her eyelids sliding shut. Dean figures she's still got some of whatever drug they put in her system, so it's probably affecting her mental acuity, not to mention the extreme release of power. What drugs? Dean wonders, frowning. And who are they? What happened?

"Tired," Mer mumbles.

"It can wait," Dean agrees past the lump in his throat. He doesn't think he wants to know the answers to his questions. "In the morning." Mer murmurs something that sounds like an affirmative and settles on Dean's chest. She kicks away the covers off first, though, which makes Dean smile absurdly wide. He puts a hand on her back, savoring the steady rise and fall of her chest.

"Granpa's gone," Mer suddenly says in the silence. Dean stiffens. His first reaction is flat out refusal. No. Never. But underneath that is an anguished acceptance; he already knows this. Mer's hot tears scald his chest and he feels a hollow knot of sadness deep in his chest.

"Yeah," Dean says hoarsely. It all comes back in fits and starts then, a disjointed puzzle creating an unhappy picture. Dad's gone, damned himself to the Pit. Dean's not stupid, he knows enough semiotics and rituals to determine the consequences of breaking that circle. This one guaranteed a one-way ticket straight to Hell, a life given to seal the circle and a life given to break it. Dean feels himself sliding back to the empty grayness he'd been in, the place that promised nothing in exchange for everything. He's tempted, so tempted, to go back there, but Mer jerks him back.

"The pretty man will help him," Mer reassures him, her voice thick with sleep. She curls into Dean's side, her head resting on his shoulder. She sniffs, still mourning her grandfather.

"What?" Dean asks, alarmed. "The pretty man?"

"Mmm-hmmm."

"Mer," Dean says urgently, shaking Mer to wake her. Mer blinks at him, then scowls. Her eyes keep sliding closed, and he can tell it's an effort to keep them open. "What pretty man?"

"The one in the light," Mer mumbles, her head falling forward onto Dean's shoulder. "The one who took Granpa." Mer falls asleep from one breath to the next, leaving Dean wide awake with her words.

****

Missouri gives Dean a relieved hug and a sincere smile, even though her eyes are filled with pain, when he stumbles out for food. Bobby wakes up a six that night. He looks like Dean feels, and they nod at one another in understanding and avoid the alcohol. Sam doesn't wake up.

Dean sits by Sam's bedside the whole next day, but he doesn't move. Mer comes in once and stares hard at Sam, worrying her bottom lip and frowning at him. She shakes her head and steps out of the room, hovering at the threshold.

"Mer?" Dean calls, but she looks at him with wide, scared eyes and flees. Dean would go after her, but he can feel that she's alright and wants to be alone. She hums in the back of his mind, ever present, so Dean sits back and waits.

It's like Missouri warned him. Sam's body is fine and active, but Sam isn't home. He doesn't ping or ding, not even a little bit. But that doesn't mean he's gone forever. He can't be. Dean needs him.

****

Bobby disappears for two days. When he comes back, it's obvious he tried to drink his weight in alcohol and almost succeeded. He glances at Dean, nods as Missouri fills him in on Sam's unchanging condition and stares blearily at Mer when she approaches him. Mer touches his hand and Bobby grunts in surprise, his eyes clearing and the pain-lines around his eyes easing.

He crawls into the shower, trims his beard, and comes down looking like himself. He builds a pyre a couple of miles from the house. Call him sentimental or superstitious, but he threads in different herbs and charms between the slats of wood. Some for protection, some for peace, some that are supposed to carry the prayers for the dead with them. He also hides tokens of John Winchester's life in the midst of the wood. His favorite knife, an old gun scored with use, a damn good bottle of whisky they'd saved for a rainy day. To be fair, Bobby'd drunk half in memory of the bastard.

When he's done, Bobby feels drained but his eyes are dry. He's said his goodbyes. The best they can do for the dead is get on with the living.

----

Four days after their fucked-up rescue mission they send John Winchester off into the Great Whatever. Dean had hoped Sam would be here so he didn't have to face this alone, but Sam has shown no sign of waking any time soon. Dean tries to stay strong but seeing his father's body on top of all that wood, wrapped in brown canvass cloth...

Dean refuses the torch and watches stoically as Bobby touches the flame to the pyre, eyes glassy in the firelight. Dean can't move, his muscles all locked where they are, because if he so much as twitches he's either going to pull a Sam and run as far away as his feet can carry him or start bawling like a baby.

Mer's hand slips into his, small and warm. Dean has to take several deep breaths before he can look down at her. She's completely open with her grief, not trying to hide it from anyone. Tears spill down her cheeks unchecked, but she looks strong standing in the firelight with her head held high. The sight breaks something deep inside him. He can't hold it together in the face of his child's heartbreak. He kneels down and wraps her in a hug. She cries into his shoulder, deep sobs that make him hurt for her. He's not even aware he's crying too until much, much later.

----

When they get back from the funeral Sam has an IV in his arm and various other tubes coming out of his body. Bobby says something about a nurse friend who came by to do him a favor, but it's all background noise to Dean. He can see a dark red stain in the crease of Sam's elbow where the needle went in.

Mer actually comes in the room to check on Sam, her forehead creased in a frown. She reaches out and to touch Sam's arm almost apologetically, but snatches her hand back before it connects with his skin.

"Mer?" Dean asks softly, sending her a mental query through their link. Mer shakes her head, looking miserable, and backs out of the room. When her back hits the wall outside the room she slides down, eyes fixed on Sam. She puts her head on her knees and wraps her arms around her legs and stares at Sam. Dean settles back into his chair to wait.

****

Every time Dean pings Sam, it comes back empty and hollow. Sam isn't dead—his body is healing fine, all systems go—but he's not _there_. Sometimes Dean gets a sense of taint, an aftertaste of evil, but it's always just an echo and he chalks it up to what they just went through. In his darker moments Dean thinks that taint may be why Mer avoids Sam.

Most of the time Dean stays...not positive, as that would be a blatant lie. Determined. Constant. Certain. Sam will wake up, because Sam will not leave him. He promised them forever, him and Mer, and Sam keeps his promises.

So Dean keeps his vigil. He eats the food Missouri pushes on him but doesn't taste it. He needs to be strong when Sam wakes up. He can't be sure of Sam's mental state when he wakes up, so Dean has to be at his best.

Mer watches over them both from the hall. She reminds Dean to drink, eat, and shower. She watches over Sam when Dean stumbles out of the room because he has to pee or Bobby hauls him outside for ten minutes of sunlight. When she falls asleep against the wall Bobby tucks her into bed. Every night, despite the fact that as soon as she wakes up the next day she goes right back to her spot leaning against the wall. She refuses to use the pillows and cushions they leave for her.

Sometimes, when he feels like he's going to go out of his mind, Dean joins her in the hall. The two of them lean against one another and watch the rise and fall of Sam's chest.

Bobby's nurse friend comes by every couple of days to check the IV, catheter and various other medical tubes and implements. Dean hates her touching Sam; he hates her sympathetic looks and down-turned lips even more. She doesn't think Sam will ever wake up.

She tries to talk to Mer once when Dean makes the mistake of going to the bathroom so he doesn't have to see her manhandle Sam. Mer's fury staggers him, leaves him with a splitting headache. Dean has no idea what she said to Mer, but whatever Mer says back makes the woman jerk away and gape. She leaves in a hurry without another word.

Mer is literally shaking with anger in the aftermath, her eyes narrow and lips pressed together in a thin line. Dean pulls her into his lap and holds her. He doesn't try to sooth her because she knows how he's feeling and anything he tried would fall utterly flat. Sometimes it sucks having a super psychic kid.

The next time the nurse shows up the pitying looks are masked by brusque professionalism. She glances at Dean in greeting but avoids Mer as much as possible and keeps her stupid opinions to herself.

****

Sam wakes up without any fanfare or warning. Dean's busy staring at the paisley bedspread he knows way too well and utterly loathes, keeping half a psychic eye on Sam and the other half on Mer, when the background hum changes. It's subtle at first. The hollow thrum of Sam's psyche shifts into a buzzing, staticy sound. Dean glances up to a pair of hazel eyes watching him. He smiles and starts to let his mind wander when realization hits him like a punch to the gut. Dean sits up so fast he slides off the front of the chair and onto the floor.

"Sammy?" Dean whispers. His voice comes out hoarse and he realizes he hasn't spoken a word to anyone in almost a week. Sam's eyes are glazed, but he's _awake_. Dean slides his hand into Sam's, dry and warm. Sam blinks and squeezes Dean's hand. Dean feels his eyes sting and squeezes back.

Mer comes flying into the room, stuttering to a stop just inside the door. She stares at Sam intently, unblinking, and Dean finds himself holding his breath. She inspects him from head to toe, brow furrowed in concentration. She steps closer, closer, until she's hovering beside them.

"Is it gone?" she asks, her voice a tremulous whisper. Dean has no idea what she's talking about, but Sam does. His eyes clear and he tries to smile.

"Yeah," Sam croaks. His voice is cracked and dry. His bottom lip splits, a bright spot of blood on pale, chapped lips. "It's gone." Mer looks unconvinced, but when Sam beckons her over she only hesitates a moment before crawling towards him on the bed. She pulls the covers down and presses her hands against Sam's chest. He's lost weight, and Mer touches him like he might break. Dean puts his hands over hers and after a minute she looks up, face creased in a brilliant smile.

Sam smiles back and tugs her onto him. She settles in with a small sniff and presses her face into Sam's chest. Sam looks up at Dean, hazel eyes luminous.

The past eleven days hit Dean all at once. He almost lost Sam. Almost lost Mer. Lost Dad, gave him a warrior's send off. Sam makes a desperate animal sound in the back of his throat, perhaps responding to Dean's distress, and arches up towards Dean. Dean leans down and kisses Sam frantically, a dry press of lips.

"I'm safe," Sam gasps. Dean rests his forehead against Sam's and licks his lips; he tastes the salt of Sam's blood on his tongue.

They've weathered the storm and come out the other side. They're tired and broken and they've lost so much to get here, but they're together and safe.

_The Family is a haven in a heartless world. -Christopher Lasch_

_

* * *

  
_

**Epilogue**

"Atta! Atta, look!"

"Yes, yes, I see, Mer," Sam says distractedly, tasting the spaghetti sauce to see if it's ready.

"You're not LOOKING!" Mer censures petulantly. Sam sighs and obediently turns around. Mer looks...Sam chokes up and swallows heavily. Mer looks grown up. She's wearing a striped shirt, a brand new pair of jeans, and shiny black shoes. She has a bright red lunch box with her name written in sharpie and a backpack almost bigger than she is.

A stinging slap jerks Sam out of his reverie.

"None of that," Dean orders brusquely. Sam glares and rubs his head, but he knows just how affected Dean is by the first day of school.

"You look great, Mer," Sam says sincerely, and she grins and bounces with excitement.

"You ready Mer-Bear?" Whit calls.

"YEAH!" Mer yells and starts checking off all the things she has. Dean looks murderous, his jaw clenched so hard Sam's surprised he hasn't broken a tooth. Sam slides behind Dean, wraps his arms around him and props his chin on Dean's shoulder.

"Well, come on then. Don't want to be late, do you?" Whit chides. She still moves a little jerkily on one side. Sam's seen the burn on her stomach, the skin scarred and pink. Physical therapy is difficult and painful, but Whit has met another nurse during her treatment and it makes everything more bearable, even if they're 'taking things slow.'

"Don't forget your knife!" Dean yells at Mer's retreating back. Sam's sure that if he weren't physically holding Dean back he'd be following after Mer like a mother hen.

"Got it!" Mer yells back, waving over her shoulder.

"And if anyone tries to—" Sam claps a hand over Dean's mouth.

"She'll be fine," Sam whispers in his ear. Dean shivers and Sam lets his hand slide down Dean's chin, to his chest and bites down lightly on the shell of Dean's ear. Dean nods mutely and tilts his head to one side in invitation. Sam presses a kiss beneath Dean's ear, starts working his way down Dean's neck. He's just hit Dean's pulse point when Mer comes hurtling back into the room and attaches herself to Dean's legs.

"I love you, Dada," she says. Dean gapes down in surprise. "And you too, Atta!" Mer looks up at them and grins, then sprints out of the room as quickly as she came.

Dean's a fucking wreck after that, alternating between proud of his girl, scared someone (something) is going to hurt her, and terrified Mer's going to have some sort of psychic episode, a reenactment of the Chuck-E-Cheese incident. It takes everything Sam has to keep Dean sane. It's cute and adorable to see Dean so worked up, but also a little annoying. Especially since Sam has been banking on sex sometime today.

Deep down in Sam's chest, in the parts of himself not even he knows about, something dark and small picks up on Sam's frustrations and flares to life. It wiggles and grows, gathers Sam's anger and feeds.

Sam shivers, a powerful rush of dark emotions welling in him, but he shakes it off. Dean's currently running through what they'll do if Mer breaks someone's nose the first day of school, and Sam can't help but laugh as Dean bounces between buying Mer whatever she wants in hypothetical congratulations and grounding her as soon as she walks in the door.

Sam smirks and kisses Dean quiet. They have the house to themselves, after all.

* * *

**A/N:** This is the end of _A Haven in a Heartless World_, but not the end of this verse. There are still several stories left to tell! I'll be uploading them to this same file so they're all in one place, so if you're watching this story for updates you'll get the alerts. Thanks for reading and all of your lovely comments! They've all been greatly appreciated. :)


	20. Bridge

**Title**: Bridge to Everywhere  
**Rating**: R  
**Warnings**: language; nongraphic boy!sex; seeds of angst; domesticity **Summary**: There are telling moments, in retrospect. But in retrospect a lot of things become clear. The first 17 years of Mer's life.  
**A/N**: This is a bridge between A HAVEN IN A HEARTLESS WORLD and the next story in this series, Divergent Horizons. Haven happens when Mer is 4.  
**Acknowledgments**: Mad thanks to carinas_carinae for her awesome beta skills and cheerleading. And vamptastica for always wanting more and letting me tell her how insane I am to try my hand at this series. :D

* * *

There are telling moments, in retrospect. But in retrospect a lot of things become clear.

-3.

Dean gets hurt on a hunt because Sam isn't there. Sam is off in California being Joe College and playing at normal and Dean doesn't have anyone to watch his back. For the first time he has a new scar that no one knows the story to.

Dean sews himself up, stitches rough and uneven from the awkward angle, and gets blindingly drunk.

0.

Karen Ivers isn't a bad person. She's got hopes and dreams and a ten-year plan. She's _going places._ Places far away from her dead-eyed Dad and her miserable Mother and the run-down house they're all tied to.

She pulls out a roll of bills from her hiding place, carefully hidden tips and change painstakingly scraped together over the years. It isn't a lot but it's almost enough. She stares down at her small pile of treasure and wonders. Choices stretch before her, possibilities upon possibilities, so many she feels choked with them.

The child inside her shifts and Karen knows she can't keep it.

.1

Mer is one month old when Dean learns he's a father. He's laid up with a broken leg and bored out of his mind when a blonde he barely remembers makes sure he'll never be bored again.

Dean stares mutely at the woman, arms heavy, as she babbles through an explanation of why she can't keep her. Which makes no sense to Dean. Her? Her _who_? The woman looks at him, tears in her eyes but determination in her soul and shuts the door to the motel room with finality.

The child in his arms shifts, and he knows he could never give her up.

.6

Mer is six months old when the Demon comes after her. They're holed up in a heavily-fortified hotel room, him, Mer and Dad. Sigils on the walls, salt lines around every door and even the bed.

They think they've got everything covered...except they forgot about the air vents, and that demons are not above mortal means of getting what they want. Something puts Dean and John to sleep while a supernatural breeze interrupts the salt lines. There's a dark, swirling cloud hovering over Mer when Dean startles awake. His shotgun fires before he's fully aware. The report wakes up Dad, and Mer starts screaming. The thing howls and flies towards Dean, only to be met with a double-hit of rock salt. The windows rattle and paintings fall off the wall and the demon disappears up through the vents and away.

Dean picks up Mer, terror making his heart pound loud in his ears. She screams with infant fury, and by silent agreement they pack up and head for Bobby's like Hell itself is on their ass.

1.

Mer is one when they meet Whitney Steton. She's the only survivor of a vicious attack by creatures Dean has never seen before, and hopes never to see again.

He can't seem to get a response out of Whitney in the aftermath of the attack. She's nearly catatonic, tears tracking down her face. Dean doesn't think she can handle the clean up, so he bundles her up and leads her to the car. He checks on Mer, sleeping under his jacket in her car seat, a jerry-rigged phone/baby monitor attached to her, programmed to dial 911 should he be gone for more than two hours. It's also programmed to call his phone if it registers a certain wail-like decibel. (It's worked well so far. Dean refuses to leave his daughter with Pastor Jim or—God forbid—Bobby, and most of the major cities have night care.)

He still gets two beds by rote, so he settles the civilian where Sam should be. She's shivering badly, is probably in shock, so Dean drapes all the blankets in the room over her shoulders. He's just gathering his wits about him, trying to formulate a game plan balancing a catatonic civilian, Mer, three human bodies and two supernatural ones, when Mer wakes up. Loudly. Her screams jar something in Whit, who throws herself off the bed and scrambles backwards until her back hits the wall, breathing harshly. Mer refuses to be consoled.

Dean has no idea where to even start with this clusterfuck so he does the only thing he can think of. He puts Mer in Whitney's lap.

Dean holds his breath, realizing at the last minute how incredibly _stupid_ it is to put his child in the lap of a woman in the middle of a meltdown.

It's like watching a reaction shot in slow motion. Her head tilts down slowly, and she blinks at the squirming little person in her lap. She brushes her fingers through Mer's fine, blond hairs. A tear drops onto Mer's head, and Whitney slowly gathers the baby in her arms and tucks Mer up against her chest. Mer hiccups, but settles down, her fingers curled tightly in Whitney's shirt.

When Whitney opens her eyes, Dean takes a step back at the pain he can see in them. She's here now, no more hiding. She opens her mouth to speak, but Dean cuts her off.

"I'll take care of it." Her face crumples again, a fresh flood of tears hitting her, and she nods. Dean escapes into the bathroom to clean himself and get away from the overwhelming crush of loss. He's halfway through his shower when it occurs to him that he left his kid with a woman he hasn't even really met.

2.

Mer is two when she moves something for the first time. With her mind.

She's in the midst of the Terrible Twos, which Dean had always thought might be the humor of tired parents. (Sammy was a serious, easy two-year-old.) It's not. Mer is a lil holy terror, face twisting when she doesn't get what she wants and refusing to do what they ask her for no apparent reason. Whit repeats "it's a normal and important stage in a child's development" like a mantra, over and over and over again.

"NO!"

"Mer," Dean grits out. She knocks her apple juice over.

"NO! GAPE!"

"You asked for apple."

"GAPE!"

"You can have that after you drink your apple juice," Dean says reasonably. Mer's face scrunches up and she starts turning red. Dean steels himself to bear another angry outburst...except Mer's face smoothes out and she looks almost smug. The grape juice floats by his head. Mer giggles and claps, all smiles now.

"Gape!" She picks up her sippy cup and starts drinking the apple juice just to be contrary.

"Holy shit."

* * *

It's like the floodgates are open after that. When Mer throws a temper tantrum they have to deal with her AND things flying around the room. She also starts responding to their emotions, which is the point where Dean throws in the towel and calls his father.

Whit thinks John Winchester is hot in that rugged, non-nonsense, alpha kind of way. And while he's way too intense for her, she can't help but admit her own attraction to the man. But it's clear he's got bigger things weighing him down than she can help him with. Still, a girl can dream.

John and Dean pour through texts trying to figure out if Mer's safe. They subject her to all kinds of cleansing and revealing rituals, trying to make sure nothing evil is influencing her. All they get is a fussy baby and a lingering stench in the living room. And Mer's powers continue to grow. She alternates between clinging to her grandfather and getting as far away from him as she can. It's one of the ways they gauge her development, and her episodes are becoming more and more frequent every day. When she spends most of the day crying herself to sleep John finally decides to take her to see Missouri.

* * *

Missouri Mosely is _awesome_, wooden spoon and attitude aside. Dean gets to see his daughter smile for the first time in weeks when they cross the threshold of her house. She also makes a killer apple pie. And she seems to have a pretty good grasp on what's going on with Mer.

Dean learns all sorts of meditation and focusing techniques Missouri swears will help Mer learn to control herself _and_ keep her out of Dean's head. Dean abruptly realizes that _his kid is psychic_ and has a panic attack. There's so much shit in his head that Mer should never, ever find out about it's not even funny. So Dean buckles down and doesn't made snide quips about navel gazing and deep breathing. He breathes, and he relaxes, and he's Christopher Reeve in _The Village of the Damned_ imagining brick walls and ocean waves. Missouri smacks him upside the head for that one.

When they're finally ready to leave, Missouri sends them home with symbols for the doors and windows, spells for the walls, and other things designed to help keep Mer sane while she learns to navigate the world. They don't block out everything—Missouri gives them a long, long speech on how that would be Very Bad For Mer's Development—but they'll create a safe haven for her. And Dean. Missouri looks at him pointedly, and Dean grins because he has no idea what she's talking about. Really.

He also doesn't know that Dad's worried about this turn of events, that it's somehow tied to Sam (wow, is THAT still a painful subject), and he's feeling guilty. Dad ends up staying with them for two whole weeks, taking care of Mer, etching protections into the very foundation of the house and starting some super secret project in her room that Dean's not allowed to know about.

Dad disappears without a word, and Dean spends a lot of time staring at the family portrait he'd painstakingly painted on Mer's wall. Dean runs his fingers over the curve of Sam's smile and swallows the lump in his throat.

3.

Mer has just turned three when she starts talking _a lot._ In fairly complete sentences to people they can't see. Dean checks every ward, hauls Bobby, Dad AND Missouri to the house to check everything twice. There are no demons, ghosts, shades, ghouls or other creatures within a five-block radius of their house. None within a mile by the time they're done. It's still really freaky to watch Mer suddenly stop playing, head cocked to the side and eyes focused on something no one else can see.

She has a veritable entourage of invisible people. At least five that Dean and Whit can discern amongst them. Whit makes a crack about invisible friends, except they're not Mer's _friends_. Mer actually can't stand most of them. Dean's almost ready to take her to a child psychologist when she gets into a screaming match with someone named Errol and then refuses to talk for a week. Nothing Dean or Whit say or do can get her to say a word. She stomps around, dragging Mer-Bear with her and looking like thunderclouds are chasing after her.

When she does deign to speak again, it's to announce to the air that she'll only talk to 'Annie' because the rest of them are meanie poopoo heads. Which makes NO SENSE to Dean because where did she learn 'poopoo head' and shouldn't invisible friends be—excuse Dean if he sounds like a broken record—_friendly?_

A couple of months pass when Dean wakes up from a deep sleep without any reason. He stumbles out of bed and makes his way to Mer's room without really processing his motives. He can see a strip of pale light from under her doorway. Dean frowns; it's four in the morning. Mer's voice, muffled by the door, sounds happy and excited. It's only when Dean hears what sounds like an answering voice, low and indecipherable, that he fully wakes up.

He bursts into the room ready to protect his child. Only the room is empty, and Mer is sitting on her desk rearranging the photographs on her cork-board. Dean sweeps the room again, still wary. There's a gun stashed in a compartment built into the wall, too tall for Mer to reach, loaded with silver bullets. He calculates how long it would take him to get to it.

"Hey, baby girl. What'reya doing?" Dean asks, moving slowly towards her. Mer looks up and grins.

"'m ready!" she announces. Dean glances at her little board and notices there's a newly bare patch on one of the corners.

"What are you ready for?" Dean asks, picking her up. She blinks at him sleepily, a pleased smile on her face. "Mer? What are you ready for?" She puts her hands on either side of Dean's face and giggles, like they've just shared a joke. For a second, Dean swears he sees a woman standing in the corner watching them, but Mer distracts him with a sloppy kiss on the nose.

"Atta!" she declares happily, a brilliant grin on her face. Dean can't help but grin back even while he makes a note to call Bobby and ask him what the hell an 'atta' could be.

She stops talking to her 'friends' as abruptly as she started, and the incident fades in Dean's mind with time.

4.

Mer is four when she she meets Sam for the first time, steals his heart and puts his picture in the empty space of her cork board. The last vestiges of Stanford drift away and Sam lets them go willingly. They all get caught up in something way bigger than they could possibly know. It binds them together even as it plants the seeds that will rip them apart.

5.

Mer is five when she breaks her arm. Dean feels it all the way in Michigan, a slash of physical pain that's not his own, but he knows the feeling of a broken bone. Sam picks up on it moments later, a wail of psychic pain abruptly muffled. Dean flips the car around as Sam starts scrolling through their contacts, looking for someone to take over the hunt. They can both feel Mer trying to be brave for them. Dean grits his teeth and the engine revs ineffectually as the doctor sets her arm, a hundred miles too far away.

They find Mer morosely eating ice cream and sporting a bright pink cast. Mer hates pink, and it's depressing her more than actually having a broken arm, which she thinks is pretty cool. All the kids in her play group are going to be so jealous, and all the parents are going to pay attention to her. Whit tells them in hushed tones that the doctor had just assumed Mer'd want a pink cast, and they had both been too busy keeping their cool to notice.

* * *

Dean spends the rest of the day hanging out with his kid and catering to her every whim. Really, he just wants to make that hang-dog expression go far, far away. He's just beginning to wonder where Sam got off to when he comes home, a bag in hand.

"You ready for this?" he asks with a grin, dumping out a tableful of arts and craft supplies. He also has a sheaf of Star Wars stickers with him. Mer looks at him like he's her hero and Dean...Dean projects the naughtiest things he can imagine at Sam, careful to keep them very, very focused. Sam blushes bright red and stammers through an argument about how to use the puff paint and whether they should leave space for Mer's friends to sign. Sam sends Mer off to get Whit so she can join in the fun. As soon as she's gone, he throws a handful of glitter at Dean.

"Dude! You gave me art herpes!" Dean complains. Sam smirks and gives Dean a kiss that curls his toes and leaves him a little befuddled in the aftermath.

* * *

A package arrives for Mer one day. Whit gets it, wonders who's sending Mer mail, and forgets about it as soon as she puts it on the side table. Mer stares at the package for three days. No one touches it, moves it, acknowledges its existence but her.

The fourth day, Mer waits until all of her parents are busy and takes the package to her room. It's from her grandfather, though he's dead and didn't mail it. There's still a sense of him lingering on the packaging, faint but there. It makes her sad.

She carefully cuts into the top of the box and pulls out what's inside, making sure the protective cover stays on the book. A shiver of fear and revulsion crawls over her skin.

She hides the book at the bottom of her Emergency Bag—they each have one, clothes and essentials packed into one duffel in case they need to make a fast break for it one day. She shoves the bag back under her bed and lets the memory escape into the air.

The book sits quietly at the bottom of the bag through the years, waiting.

6.

Mer is six when Sam almost kills a man in Reno. It's not as funny as it should be.

They're coming off of a difficult hunt, something like a chupacabra on steroids that almost kills Dean. They're both on edge, brimming with life and the need to celebrate that fact. They stop off at a bar for a couple of drinks. They're usually more subtle than this. It's a game, the way they brush against one another, how Dean charms the waitress while his fingers skim along the side of Sam's legs.

But this is different. This is hot looks, eye-fucking across the room, suggestive hints whispered directly into lust-addled minds. Dean bends over the pool table and Sam watches the way he handles the pool cue, the curve of his ass. Dean spreads his stance a little wider, just to taunt him, and Sam's just about had enough when some jackass 'accidentally' stumbles into Dean and sends him crashing to the floor.

The man calls Dean a fag and Sam loses it. He doesn't remember anything, but the next thing he knows Dean is dragging him off the man, whose face is a mass of bloody tissue. He's broken several bones in his hand.

Dean patches him up, his worry a constant buzz in the back of Sam's head. Sam kisses Dean gently. In thanks. In apology. In promise. It won't happen again.

A part of Sam knows he's lying. He thinks a part of Dean knows too.

* * *

Two figures swathed in shadows watch a young girl spin underneath the stars, her laughter ringing through the night. She spins around, her dirty-blonde hair floating like a halo around her. She twirls until she can't keep her balance, but before she falls strong arms wrap around her and life her up.

"Watch it, Mer-bear!"

"Da-ad!" The girl laughs as her father spins her around, her legs swinging in the air. She breaks free and starts twirling on her own the moment her feet touch the ground. "Spin with me!" The father rolls his eyes but throws his arms wide and twists on his heel, head tilted up towards the sky.

The girl whirls until she can't stay upright, giggling all the way to the ground, sprawled out as if she owns the world. The man joins her soon after, panting from his exertions.

"You think Van Gogh did this before he painted?" the girl asks.

"Has Damien been giving you the good stuff again?"

"Dad! Doesn't the spinny sky look all _Starry Night_?" She traces swirls with her fingers, sketching the masterworks she's learning about in school onto the sky.

"Hmmm. I dunno, I lost my buzz. Guess we'll have to try again." The laughter continues, loud in the quiet night, and they spin wildly on the front lawn. Their noise brings another man and a woman out of the house.

"Well I'll be damned. Dean finally lost his mind for real," the woman mutters. She has a grin on her face in contradiction of her words.

"Dean, what are you doing?" the tall man asks, a frown distorting his features.

"Come on, Sammy! We're making the whole sky into shooting stars!" The girl's father grabs the frowning man and spins him around, their feet moving in quick staccato steps. They lean away from each other, but they are each other's anchors, hands clasped firmly together. Their eyes never leave each other.

"Whit! Don't just _stand_ there! Spin!" the girl orders. Laughing, the woman does as she's bid, spinning as fast as she can.

The figures watched this odd, patchwork family twirl on the lawn together.

"They seem...happy," one says. His speech is stilted and halting, as if he is unaccustomed to speaking at all.

"They are," the other says softly. Wistfully. The corners of her mouth turned down in an expression of upset. She knows this will not last.

"This should be protected," the first says with conviction. His mentor's frown deepens. He can see pain and regret within her for things they have done and things they have yet to do. For the things they will fail to do.

"That which should be and that which is are too often different. We will do what we must."

7.

Mer is seven when she befriends a boy named Dan. He's quiet and shy, never quite meets anyone's eyes and only smiles for Mer. She talks to him in secret tones, soft and intimate. Dan ends up spending a lot of time at their house, and Mer never asks to go to his, which strikes them as odd but no one really thinks anything of it.

Mer doesn't have a lot of friends. That's not to say she's not _friendly_; she's quite personable and got a big dose of Dean's charm. She's just shown no interest in most of the other students. She still hangs out with Finn and Riley from their old play group, but both of them go to different schools.

One day, they get an irate call from Mer's school demanding their immediate presence in the principal's office. Dean jokes all the way there about what Mer could've done, reminiscing about the multitude of times he ended up in the principal's office growing up. Sam bears it with an indulgent smile because he knows inside Dean is freaking out.

Dean stares at the principal, who looks at them over steepled fingers with down-turned lips and hard eyes.

"You wanna run that by me again?" Dean asks dangerously.

"Mis-ter Winchester," the principal says condescendingly, and Sam feels the way Dean bristles, his emotions sharp and acerbic. Sam can't say he doesn't feel the same way. "Mr. Anders is an upstanding member of the community. He's highly placed in the local government, and—"

"And that never stopped someone from being a fuckhead," Dean growls angrily. Sam feels a headache building behind his eyes, Dean's anger spilling beyond his control. Spiraling would be more accurate, Dean spinning down into a vortex of rage.

"Now, Mister Winchester, when your daughter starts spreading lies—" Dean gets up so fast his chair topples over. The principal has the good sense to look frightened and shrink back.

"You call my daughter a liar again, _Principal_ Thorp, and I will bring the fear of the PTA down on you."

Dean stalks out, and Sam lets him go, keeps his eyes glued to the Principal. The man looks back at him with beady eyes, sweat collecting on his upper lip. Sam feels a darkness stirring in him and doesn't push it down, lets it rise up and fill him, projecting it so even the least gifted human has to feel it. Without a word Sam unfolds himself from the chair, making sure to pull himself up to his full height. Thorp reeks of fear. Of prey, cornered and hopeless. Sam smirks and saunters out. The door closes by itself behind him.

They take Mer home with them. She's quiet and withdrawn. She goes into her room and wraps herself around Mer-Bear.

It's not long before Mer climbs into their bed, inconsolable. She never actually tells them what happened, but they know. Dean waits until she's cried herself to sleep before calling the police with an anonymous tip. By the time law enforcement arrives at the perfect house on the perfect lane of the perfect family, Dan's body is room temperature and his outstanding-member-of-society-politician-stepfather is long gone. For all their safeguards against the supernatural, Sam and Dean are powerless in the face of human cruelty.

Mer never confides in another teacher ever again. She's her father's child in that way: burn her once and you won't get a second chance (unless you're family, which is a whole different can of messed up), so all the teachers that come after have to bear the burden of the ones that came before. Many of them pick up on this and resent her. But a few teachers understand. Usually the older ones who have seen and been through it all. They watch the students, and they see what's hidden under long tee-shirts and fleeting glances. These teachers, the ones who see, keep careful track of the students Mer takes interest in, and act accordingly.

Mer collects the broken, the neglected and the un-championed. She never talks about it—not even to Dean, Sam or Whit—but it doesn't take long for all of them to figure it out. She takes them in and gives them shelter. Some of them take refuge and flourish with the nourishment of her smile and indefatigable personality, then gently fade away, finding their place in the world. But others stick around—Max and Viv and Dane and Chelsea practically move in with them—and are Mer's most dedicated friends.

For their part, Sam and Dean have more blow-up air mattresses between them than a summer camp, but no one ever gets turned away. When Mer comes home with an unexpected guest, there's always a place laid down without question or fuss. They quickly learn which kids need a hug and which ones need to sit at the end of the table, as far away from the adults as possible.

"Give me your tired, your poor," Sam whispers in Dean's ear one night, "your huddled masses yearning to breathe free."

One day, Dean brings home a friend, a big guy named Mike who has a rainbow of colors and pictures on his arms and a fearsome looking scar slicing through his left eyebrow. Mer studies him, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. Mike looks back calmly. Sam gets the feeling he's missing something.

Abruptly, Mer's face shifts from wary to wholly welcoming and she attaches herself to Mike's leg and makes him drag her around the house, which he does with a big, booming laugh. After that Mike shows up with frequency. He speaks to Mer's friends in gentle tones, respects their unspoken wishes, and gradually gains their trust. They love his tattoos and they don't care about his scar.

It takes Sam way longer than it should to realize Mike is a social worker. He feels like an idiot. Dean laughs at him, bruising Sam's ego, and apologizes with a sloppy blowjob on the floor of their room.

8.

Mer is eight when she has her first kiss, and it's quite possibly _the most traumatic thing that's ever happened_. Sam has to take drastic measures to keep Dean from flying off into a rage and killing one of her closest friends. Finn's dad John, who'd volunteered to drive Mer home early after the fiasco left both participants in tears, tries to explain what happened, but he takes one look at Dean's face and beats a hasty retreat. He has to come back to retrieve Finn, who looks bemused by the whole situation. Sam thinks the kid better get used to it if he plans on dating women when he grows up.

Between Mer's gasping, shuddering sobs and ear-splitting wails, the story unfolds as such:

Mer and Jer had been hanging out in the community center's park, taking a break from the dancing and general merriment. Jer was lording over Mer because he was older, and Mer had decided the best way to get back at Jer was...to kiss him. Right on the lips. And it had been nice and good and wonderful until Mer remembered that Jer belonged to Lissa. And then it was horribly, despicably, unimaginably _wrong_. She had betrayed Lissa and that made her the worstest person in forever!

They take turns consoling her, promising she didn't irreparably damage Jer and Lissa's eternal bliss and that everything will be alright. When she's finally asleep, hiccoughing a little with each breath, they stoically close her door, troop into their room, and collapse on the floor, crying with laughter.

"Could you imagine—_Mer_ and _Jer,_" Dean gasps.

When they can breathe again, they call Whit at the hospital's nurse's station to tell her what happened. She censures them for not being sensitive to Mer's plight, but her frequent fits of laughter don't earn her any points.

* * *

Whit takes off for a couple of weeks in October. She doesn't tell anyone where she's going or what she's going to do. She turns off her cell and falls off the map until the day she strolls into the house with a bag of rock candy for Sam and Mer.

There's something different about her, but when anyone asks she just gives them a secret smile and shrugs it off.

9.

Mer is nine when Whit gets married to her ex-rehab nurse, Damien van Petten. It's just them and Damien's two sisters at the wedding, with Missouri officiating. (Unsurprisingly, there is no mention of Whit obeying anyone in her vows, and Missouri wisely does not refer to them as "Mr. And Mrs." anything.) Dean's signature as witness is shaky because he had something in his eye. That's all. And his hands still aren't shaking when he hugs her, long and hard, after the 'I dos.'

But Damien is a decent guy: he doesn't even flinch when Whit tells him they're moving in the Carver's old house right across the street. She can't leave Sam, Dean, or Mer. He knows Dean saved Whit from a bad situation and she's practically Mer's mom, and he's down with that.

They help Whit pack up her stuff and move, but it still hurts. The house feels quiet and big without her, and it takes them a long time to get used to it. If they ever do.

* * *

Sam has a disturbing dream during a solo hunt in Louisiana. He chalks it up to the VooDoo Priest who'd looked at him—through him—and told him the world would scream his name in anger. That's enough to unsettle anyone. He wakes up panting, heart racing, and terrified for Dean. He can't shake the feeling that there's something threatening after Dean, looking for him, wanting him dead. He doesn't calm down until he feels the gentle brush of Dean's mind, sleepy and content. Sam withdraws and forces himself to calm down, vowing to finish this case up as soon as he can.

He has the dream every night until he gets home.

10.

Mer is ten when she kills her first supernatural creature. A skin-walker attacks her class on a field trip to the river. Mer only has a 10-inch silver-plated Bowie knife and her wits. Luckily, Sam and Dean have been honing her wits and her (hypothetical) hunting skills for years and she's quick on the draw.

Mer throws her knife before her teacher can so much as scream. The knife flies true and embeds straight through the grotesque bear-thing's heart. The 'walker dies with a gurgling cry, tripping over its feet and tumbling to the ground. It rolls a couple of times before coming to rest, dead as a doornail, at their feet looking completely human.

"What did you just do?" Mrs. Lampry screeches. "What...what just _happened_?" Mer looks down at the body in horror.

"The dads are going to _kill me._"

* * *

"Dean, calm down."

"That THING attacked my kid!"

"Dean—"

"She's not leaving the house ever again."

"Dean, that's not—"

"We can home school her."

"We are not home schooling Mer," Sam groans, flopping down on the bed. He's really dreading the first time Mer comes home with a boy.

"You heard her, it went right for her, do not pass go, do not eat the teacher! And don't try to tell me it's not because she's special." Sam regrets ever posing that theory. He should have KNOWN Dean would react this way.

"So we get her protection," he points out reasonably. He's sure that between himself, Missouri, and Bobby they can come up with a charm or hex bag or something that will mask Mer from the supernatural nasties.

"I am not tattooing my kid!" Dean protests. Sam arches an eyebrow because that would not have been his first thought. In fact, he can't imagine a world where that would be anyone's first thought. A slow blush creeps over Dean's neck, a sure sign that he's hiding something.

"Dean."

"What?" Dean asks nonchalantly. Sam purses his lips and glares. "The place in Chicago said to bring her back when she's 15."

"You tried to get Mer _tattooed_?"

"Not...not really?" Dean offers weakly. "Look, it was right after the demon, and I was—"

"She was _six months old!_"

"I didn't go through with it!"

They stare at each other for a long minute until Dean's lips twitch and Sam starts cracking up. Sam pulls Dean down on top of him and they both laugh until their sides ache.

"I was thinking a hex bag or a charm," Sam says once they've calmed down. Dean hums and noses into the side of Sam's neck.

Two weeks later, Mer gets a silver necklace courtesy of Bobby. It's a combination of three of the oldest protection symbols they know, a beautifully simple series of lines with a world of meaning behind them.

11.

Mer is eleven when Damien gets a job offer in Louisiana and Whit refuses to go. She says the Winchesters are her family and Damien knew that when he married her. This sparks epic fights and accusations of infidelity. Whit practically moves back into her old room. Mer gets misty-eyed whenever she sees one of them, sniffling piteously at the unrest and hugging Mer Bear to her chest.

After a long discussion, Dean and Sam sit Damien down, line three bottles of liquor in front of him, and explain to him that the Things That Go Bump in the Night Are Real. Oh, and all three of the Winchesters? Psychic. (Dean admits this grudgingly. Sam feels unnecessarily smug that he FINALLY got Dean to say it out loud.)

Damien thinks they're both crazy, but he indulges them with a nervous smile. Mer comes home from soccer practice, eyes them all critically, and tells them Damien still doesn't believe. Dean asks her for a glass of water and Damien stares as a glass floats from the cabinet to the sink, fills with water, and sails neatly into Dean's hand. Mer smirks and flounces off to find Whit, who's hiding in her house pending the outcome of The Talk. Damien starts in on the Tequila like it's his job.

"Let me tell you why Whit won't leave," Dean says grimly, taking a shot for fortification. Sam can feel how much Dean doesn't want to be doing this, but he soldiers on regardless.

* * *

_Dean got a call from Bobby about a family in Iowa who'd been calling local psychics about a problem and suddenly fallen out of communication. They'd complained of strange noises in the night, tapping on the windows, rustling in the bushes, that had escalated to randomly slamming doors, scrabbling feet, misplaced knickknacks and rearranged furniture. Dean agreed to take a look, had packed up Mer and hit the road._

_It took him four days to get to Iowa. Those wasted days still haunt him sometimes._

_When he got there he left Mer sleeping in the Impala a block away and hid his shotgun under his jacket. The front door swung open, unlocked. The house was unnaturally quiet. Three steps in and the copper smell of blood reached him._

_Dean cautiously made his way through the darkened house, senses on alert. There were pictures of a happy family spread over the house, a mother, father, two kids. An older daughter at her college graduation, and a younger son rolling his eyes at the camera on his first day of high school. Dean wanted them all to be okay so badly._

_He heard something scurry across the floor above him and tracked the movement with his shotgun. That scurry definitely wasn't human. Dean cautiously made his way upstairs, the stench of spilled blood getting stronger with every step. Light flickered under a door, movement from within, and Dean pushed it open._

_The decimated body of what had been an older man was pushed in a corner, several days into decomp, most of the flesh picked away from the bone. Two gray-skinned creatures were hunched over a body apiece, one of them smaller than the others. Bile rose in Dean's throat and he ruthlessly suppressed it, but he couldn't forget the happy family photos he'd seen downstairs, those faces superimposed on the corpses. A choked whimper caught his attention._

_In the far corner was a woman, still alive and unharmed though so scared the press of her emotions sliced through Dean's shields and almost drove him from the room. Another of the creatures was pressed close to her, sniffing deeply, purring in contentment. Her eyes were shut tight, and she held herself rigidly away from the thing. Occasionally, a wet sound would come from one of the corpses and she would flinch; the creature's purring would __increase every time. Dean swore to himself as he realized the creature seemed to be feeding off her fear and despair. Likely had been for a while now. A sickening picture came together of a family terrorized, their emotions carefully cultivated by these creatures until they were of no more use and then...a two-fold attack for a two-fold hunger. Hatred welled up in Dean, clear and bright. These fuckers were going down._

_The pump-action of the shotgun echoed loudly in the room. The three creatures immediately spun around, spines on their backs coming up in defense. They growled at Dean and he felt a wave of manufactured terror wash over him. He grit his teeth against it and fought back, concentrating on his anger._

_"Come and get me, you slimy gray fuckers!" The first one lunged at him, and Dean blasted it out of the air. It went down with a yelp, tumbling to the ground and bleeding thick yellow. The second one hit Dean too fast to reload, so he swung the butt of the gun around and struck it in the face. The third he shot at instinctively, gratified to hear the animal yelp from it. The woman in the corner was screaming, her hands clapped over her ears and curled as small as she could get, which suited Dean fine. One less thing for him to worry about._

_The creature he'd stunned climbed to his feet and attacked. The shotgun blast slowed it down, but didn't stop it. Its claws ripped into Dean's shoulder and propelled him into the hall. Dean jammed the gun between its slobbering, razor-like teeth. He struggled to avoid its claws, trying to reach for the gun at his back. The creature got in one last dig as Dean emptied a clip into it._

_He stumbled, bleeding, into the room. One of the creatures was dead, half its face missing from the shotgun blast. The other was writhing on the ground trying to drag itself towards the civilian huddled in the corner. Dean changed clips and put three in the back of its head._

_"Brandon. Brandon. Come on Brandon, you start high school tomorrow. Brandon, please..." Dean stared at the distraught woman on the other side of the room cradling her younger brother's body against her chest as she gently rocked him, eyes glazed over. He tried to imagine what she'd been through, days trapped in this room with these creatures, her parents and brother being... Dean suppressed his gag reflex._

_"Hey," he said quietly, kneeling before her. "I'm Dean." She stared at him without seeing him, and Dean wished that Sam was there to help._

_

* * *

_

"Whit spent five days with those things. She got to watch her entire family die in the worst ways. I think taking care of Mer is the only thing that kept her together for a while."

Damien finishes his drink in one gulp and heads over to his own house in somber silence. Dean and Sam continue to drink, Dean's memories heavy between them. Sam doesn't try to say anything, just keeps Dean's glass full.

Sam has a nightmare that night, something that involves someone he loves in imminent danger. And Sam just...can't...save him. He has the nightmare the next night too. And the next. And the next and the next until he forgets a time where terror wasn't part of his dreamscape.

12.

For all their joking and preparation when she was six, Mer actually gets in trouble for fighting for the first time when she's twelve. Some new transfer kid apparently wasn't told that you Do Not Mess With Mary Winchester And The People She Loves. Or maybe he did, and he's trying to prove he's a badass.

Either way, he ends up with a bloody nose and a healthy fear of Mer.

When Sam and Dean arrive to pick her up, the new principal smiles politely at them and bids them take the weekend to talk things over with Mary, no need for this to go on her permanent record. Sam nods to her, because she gets Mer and it's nice to finally have a principal on their side. The principal smiles and shuffles her papers. There on the top is a three-day suspension for the other kid. Dean grins and they all go out for ice cream.

One day a couple of young hunters stop by their place for some Special Winchester anti-demon rock salt and advice. As they ride off into the night Sam cracks a joke that they're becoming Bobby. Dean looks at him blankly, steadily, then disappears into the house and Sam realizes they aren't _becoming_ Bobby. _They already are._

He presses Dean into the mattress, reminds them both that they're still young and full of life. Dean lets Sam do what he wants and in the aftermath, while their bodies are still sweat-slick and sticky, tells Sam that he's happy. Sam grins goofily up at the ceiling because he is too. (The nightmares won't last forever.)

13.

Mer turns evil when she's thirteen. From one day to the next it's like someone flipped a switch. She gets irritated when they ask about her plans. She sighs, deeply annoyed that she has to deal with her _parents_ and what, exactly, had she done to deserve THESE parents?

Dean wonders how "Do you have plans for Thursday?" degenerated into a screaming match that had their next door neighbors calling over to check on them, Mer sobbing in her room, Sam throwing knives outside, and Dean blinking at his empty living room. Dean thinks his daughter has been possessed. When he brings this up to Whit, she sighs and says something about hormones and teenagers and surviving. It sounds more plausible than 'possessed by evil.'

Dean sneaks into her room that night and sprinkles her with holy water just to check.

He can't figure out what's wrong with his kid. She sulks and answers Whit's questions grudgingly. She thinks Dean is quite possibly the dumbest person on the Earth because he doesn't know _anything_. And Sam...they're like a feedback loop of anger and defensiveness. It's like Sam and Dad all over again, with every word between them an invitation for a spectacular blow up. Seriously, Dean has watched "Hello, good morning" turn into "You're not really my dad!" in 4.8 words.

* * *

Sometimes, Sam scares himself. At first it's small things. The Hunt takes on new meaning and urgency: he once pinned Dean to the ground and kissed him hard, flooding his mind with arousal and need until they both came, panting, next to the remains of a rougarou. He feels alive when they're stalking the creatures of the night, finds himself slipping into a persona that understands what they do, what drives them. It makes him a very good hunter.

His dark, twisting dreams become clearer too. They go from nebulous impressions of danger and death to recurrent images of Dean in imminent danger. Sometimes Sam finds Dean on the floor in a pool of blood, already dead. Sometimes Sam gets there in time to see the murderer leaning over his brother, knife in hand (Sam gets the impression that he knows this person, had trusted them, and often wakes with a sense of betrayal). There are variations too, one where Sam gets to watch a bullet slice through Dean's brain, a neat round hole appearing in the middle of Dean's head. The version Sam hates most is when Dean looks at him right before the bullet hits him, eyes pleading and sad.

In all of them Dean dies.

Sam wakes up flushed with adrenalin and, more often than not, ready for a fight. To kill, to protect. Dean learns to love the hot, possessive morning sex Sam uses to assure himself that Dean is alive and whole beside him. There are times when Sam feels like he's losing himself, and everything rubs him wrong except for Dean.

Dean is Sam's anchor. When the world disappears in a red-black haze, Dean shines through as clear as any sun. Sam wants to keep Dean with him all the time. He recognizes this is selfish and impossible, not to mention unhealthy. It doesn't stop the thoughts, or the want.

He finds himself jealous of Whit and hating Mer for all the attention Dean pays them. He knows that's wrong too and strives to be better, but it's hard to fight irrationality. But he survives. He lives with it, deals with it, does right by them both. He loves them intensely, his world and his heart. He would never do anything to hurt them.

Except somewhere along the way, it stops being _wrong_ and becomes habit. The reasons he represses, denies, and ignores are forgotten in the vaults of his mind. And when Mer is particularly vicious and biting and Sam wants nothing more than to get as far away from her as possible an insidious, dark voice whispers that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't have to share.

14.

When Mer is fourteen, she gets invited to the middle school dance. By a boy.

"Oh my God, I need Whit!" Mer wails.

"You look fine," Dean says with the utmost sincerity.

"Fine?" Mer says contemptuously. "I look fine? I don't want to look fine! I want to look HOT." Dean's expression darkens dangerously. "Maybe not hot. Mature? Classy."

Dean's prepared to banish Mer to her room for the rest of her life when Whit's screeching tones assault his eardrums. "Losechester! What are you doing to that poor girl? Go away. Shoo! For a gay man you have horrible taste." The bathroom door slams shut in his face.

"I'm not gay!" Dean yells at the wood. He stomps off to make out with Sam. Mer deserves the trauma of seeing her parents humping against the kitchen counter.

"Dean," Sam says against his lips. Dean growls and goes back in, but Sam pushes him away, his attention elsewhere. Dean reluctantly disengages and turns to see what...

"I told you," Whit whispers smugly to Mer, who blushes and ducks her head. She's wearing a blue dress that flows as she walks, bare in the back save for the laces. She's got on a light dusting of make-up, suitable for her age and not overdoing it. Sam nudges him, but Dean just gapes. He can't really breathe. Or think.

"You look beautiful," Sam says sincerely. Mer grins at him and blushes harder.

"Thanks," she mumbles bashfully. It's quite possibly the first exchange they've had in a long time that doesn't degenerate into a fight.

Then Lissa bursts in, looking shiny and older than she should in a skimpy sequined dress, followed by Mer's date—who Dean and Sam have already terrorized, but a refresher course can't hurt—and it's a flurry of picture-taking and eye-rolling and not-veiled threats until the kids sweep out of the house and to the car.

"Oh, poor baby," Whit says, amusement lacing her words. Dean looks up and realizes at some point he slid down to the floor.

"Dean?" Sam prods gently.

"She's all grown up," Dean manages to choke out. The world swims, and two bodies settle on either side of him.

"Yeah," Whit agrees, sounding both proud and depressed. "She really is."

15.

Mer is fifteen when she gets her first tattoo.

Whit is...not yet forty and of the opinion that tattoos are beyond her. But they all agree that Mer needs some kind of permanent protection, and Mer is a little bit leery of the process regardless of the fact she's been asking when she gets HER tattoo since she realized Sam and Dean were not born with the matching symbols on their chests. They've been telling her soon, soon, soon until her fifteenth birthday when she answered the "Are you sure-sure?" question with a resounding "YES! (As long as Whit gets one too.)"

Which is how they find themselves at a well known Hunter way station-slash-tattoo-parlor in Chicago where the artists imbue the ink with special herbs and ritualistic blessings. For better or worse they let Mer pick the design and she's been calling and e-mailing Bobby for almost a month now. Which is good, because she sure as hell isn't consulting any of her parents.

They're in the tattoo shop looking at sample books when Whit nervously broaches the subject of what, exactly, is going on their skin. Mer glances between the three of them and then shows, much to everyone's surprise, Sam the design first, biting her nail and watching him with worried eyes. Sam studies the interlocking loops and lines with a critical eye. It's a variation of the symbol on Mer's necklace, tweaked—he assumes—for tattooing.

"This...this is great." Mer beams and bounces on the balls of her feet. It looks solid, none of the properties of the three symbols will void their protective qualities, but Sam's not the expert. "You're sure it works?"

"Yes," Mer says, disgruntled, snatching the paper away. She frowns down at it as if second guessing herself and Sam mentally sighs. He wishes he didn't have to walk on eggshells with her all the time.

"I...look, it's beautiful, I just want to make sure it does what it should," he explains lamely. He ignores Dean's muttered, "Way to go, champ."

"Bobby says it's good," Mer mumbles, but she seems deflated, her former enthusiasm missing. Whit gently coaxes the sketch away from Mer so she can see for herself. After all, she agreed to this insanity as well.

"Oh, Mer-bear, this is gorgeous," Whit breathes, genuinely pleased though the comment seems to be directed at Sam more than Mer. Still, Mer perks right up and starts explaining what each part of the new symbol means to Whit and how they interact with one another. Dean grins at his kid but fazes the lecture out. Sam's paying attention because Mer sounds like she knows what she's talking about as opposed to regurgitating something Bobby told her. Like she understands the history and properties and theory behind the tattoo.

"Where does it go?" Whit asks. Sam and Dean exchange a look when Mer blushes bright red and pulls Whit down to her. She whispers something in Whit's ear and refuses to look at either of her Dads.

"Oh. OH! Right." Whit straightens up and Sam would swear _she's_ blushing now.

"Whiiiiit," Mer moans, hiding her face in her hand.

"You boys hungry? I saw a diner down the street," Whit orders, baring her teeth. "You could find some food there or something. Anything." Sam's confused for a few seconds before his brain puts together the puzzle pieces and he realizes that this is a tattoo designed for _women_ to be placed in an inconspicuous and meaningful spot. Which means for it to be most effective it has to go...yeah, food sounds awesome.

"What? I'm not missing—" Dean starts, but Sam's elbow connects with his stomach and cuts his protests off.

"We'll see you in an hour," Sam says brightly, dragging Dean after him.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean yelps, but lets Sam manhandle him. Sam rolls his eyes when Dean shimmies his hips so Sam's hand slips down to his ass. "Seriously though, I'm not going to miss my kid getting her first tat."

"You say first like you expect her to get more," Sam says, nudging Dean towards the car, "in which case you can be there for the second one."

"But—"

"Dean. It's a female-oriented symbol. Designed to protect the feminine. So it would make sense to put it in a _certain area._ You know?" There are times when Sam thinks Dean is the densest person on the planet. He stares at Sam with blank incomprehension. Luckily, Sam can explain this in a very simple way that Dean can't help but understand: sex. Sam hooks his fingers through Dean's belt loops and pulls them together, the lower halves of their bodies pressed together. Come to think of it, maybe they should hold off on the food for later... "You _know?"_

He feels the moment Dean gets it, his body stiffening and his face flushing pink. Sam grins at him because sometimes Dean pulls off being a little bit innocent.

* * *

The tattoo messes with Sam's perception for a while. Mer sometimes fades out of his consciousness without him realizing. At first it's just when he's angry, the dark part of him taking over, and he chalks that up to instinct. It would make sense if he shut Mer out so as not to hurt her. Or, more disturbingly, if her new tattoo blocked him for the same reason.

Later, he realizes with a sense of foreboding that he sometimes goes days without sensing Mer and doesn't notice. She still feels him, though there are times when she frowns at him, brow creased in concentration, and Sam thinks maybe she's trying to reach him but can't.

His dreams come back, more vivid than ever, and there's one that makes his throat close in fear. In it, Sam can taste sulfur in the air, smell the fresh scent of Dean's blood as some indistinguishable person crouches menacingly over him. Sam makes a noise and the figure turns, knife held to Dean's throat, gun pointed at Sam. He wakes up before he sees the person's face every time until the one time he doesn't. Until the figure turns and he sees a sickening, twisted smile stretched over familiar lips.

"Uncle Sam."

Sam bolts upright in bed, sweating. Mer is standing at the foot of their bed looking uncomfortable, clutching her raggedy stuffed bear to her chest. Sam can only stare at her, trying to wipe the memory of her blood-coated knife from his mind.

"You were having a bad dream, but I couldn't touch it." There are times when Mer and Sam can step into each other's dreams and calm them. It usually happens when they're not trying, when one of them has been interrupted by the other and reaches out instinctively. "It felt bad."

"It was nothing," Sam says dismissively. His voice comes out flat and disinterested. He's struggling to keep everything inside, to send Mer away so he can deal with what he's seen. Her lips press together and her eyes flatten out in teenage displeasure.

"Whatever. Have a _great_ night." She doesn't slam the door closed on account of her father, still dead to the world. Sam stumbles out of bed and throws up in the toilet, his emotions spilling out as his body rebels. Dean groans on the bed and Sam clamps down on his emotions, turning it all in. He's trying to process the unthinkable. Mer would never...could never...

But there's a voice in him that whispers he's right, that these aren't nightmares, they're visions and these things will come to pass as surely as the rising of the sun and the turning of the Earth. He tests the raw truth in the privacy of his own mind:

Mer is going to kill her father.

Sam lays in bed trying to convince himself otherwise. This is Dean's daughter. She would never do such a thing. She loves Dean; Sam can feel the truth of that himself, how deep their connection goes. She would never even contemplate such an action.

Except. Except, except things change. People change. Things happen, people fight, people make bad choices, and nowhere is it said a child has unconditional love for its parents. Who knows what forces could drive her towards such a future?

Sam shakes it off. It's ridiculous. (It's not.) He'll give her the benefit of the doubt. He can't do otherwise. He loves her, loves Dean, and it's only a dream...

16.

When Mer is sixteen, her relationship with Sam unravels in alarming ways. It starts with the fights. Dean feels like he's watching reruns of Sam and Dad, butting heads about ridiculous things they don't really care about. Dean finds himself playing mediator to a dispute that can't be won because they aren't fighting about anything.

Dean sits in the kitchen and wonders where the hell it all went wrong.

"I fucking hate you!" Dean winces.

"You can hate me all you want, but you WILL watch your language in this house!" Dean buries his face in his hands.

"Fuck you, _Uncle Sam._"

Dean wonders where his adorable kid went, replaced by this moody, snappish girl he doesn't recognize. When it stopped being Sam & Dean & Mer and turned into Sam versus Mer, with Dean a precariously balanced Switzerland. Where Atta went. Dean pours himself a drink and escapes the mindless anger outside. He pulls his cigarettes out of their hiding place and lights up, because if he's ever allowed to smoke now is it.

He stares up at the stars, smoke curling up over his head. He hears footsteps approach, but he doesn't react, just tries to remember how to blow smoke rings. It's been a while. Someone settles into the chair on the other side of the table but neither of them talk. Dean stubs out his butt and lights up a second.

"I'm sorry." Dean lets his chair fall down to the ground with the thump. Mer is like Sam in that she'll try to make Dean talk about things. The difference is she can usually get him to talk whereas Sam's generally shit out of luck.

"Yeah," Dean breathes, because he has to say something. She means it. That's one thing about being...like he is. He can tell when she's lying, and she's not. Her fights with Sam make her miserable in the aftermath, something she seems to forget while anger burns bright. He'd ground her, but it wouldn't do any good because she's only half the problem. "I'd like it if you tried harder."

Mer huffs and runs her fingers through her hair. Her lips are pressed together in frustration, a tell she picked up from Sam and it just makes Dean hurt more. He can feel her hormones and emotions bubbling through her, each one flaring brightly before subsiding as another takes its place. It gives Dean a headache, trying to keep up. Teenagers.

She settles on, "I don't think it's about trying harder." Dean takes a deep drag of his cigarette, the burn crawling down his chest. It's not enough to mask the other pain he's carrying around.

"You can always—"

"He hates me." It's like a punch to the gut the way she says it, flat and certain. Even Mer winces, as if it physically hurts her to give voice to it. Dean can feel sadness and anger and a kid's desire to be accepted, approved of, by her parents rise up like a tidal wave. It chokes him because he's so fucking proud of her, of the person he's watching her become. She should never have any doubts about that.

"He doesn't—"

"Dad." Her voice is soft and serious and far too mature. Dean looks over at her, his kid. She's small, huddled in her chair, knees tucked to her chest and stretching out one of Dean's sweatshirts. She stares up at the stars but she doesn't see them. The lights of the house glint off of unshed tears. "He hates me."

Dean looks away, a lump in his throat, because she's right. Sometimes—more and more often—Sam really does hate her. Dean can taste it, bitter and dark, and it eats at him. Eats at them both. Dean takes another drag of his cigarette and they sit there, father and daughter, both wondering what to do.

17.

When Mer is seventeen, the world as she knows it ends.


	21. Book Two: Chapter 1

**Title:** Divergent Horizons  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean  
**Verse:** Haven  
**Warnings:** language; non-Winchester character death; violence; mentions of non-graphic child abuse/less than stellar home life; powers!Winchesters; show-level violence/disturbing imagery**  
****Betas:** **c**arinas_carinae, holytaxaccntnt, creepylicious

**Summary:** Written for the 2010 **spn_j2_bigbang**. It's been 17 years since Sam left for Stanford. Left, came back, fell in love and found his Happily Every After with Dean and a little girl named Mer in a small town in Iowa.

Happily Ever After is harder than it looks.

Sam's struggling with a darkness he can feel growing in himself. Dean's trapped between two impossible forces—Sam and his daughter. And everywhere around them eyes are always watching, because not even the Winchesters can outrun destiny.

_"We all live under the same sky, but we don't all have the same horizon" - Konrad Adenauer_

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Sam can't close his eyes in his dreams. Can't choose not to watch Mer hold a knife to Dean's throat as Dean's blood spreads rapidly across the floor. Despair, helplessness and anger wash over him. Dean's breathing turns harsh and difficult. Mer turns towards him, the hints of a smile already on her face. The knife at Dean's throat twitches._

_"DEAN!" Sam lunges forward, only to be stopped by an invisible barrier that keeps him stationary. He throws everything he has at it, but it won't move. "Dean!"_

_"God, it's like you're not even trying, Uncle Sam." Mer appears to his right, eating a cheeseburger as she watches her father bleed out on the floor, her mirror image kneeling in Dean's blood. "Seriously, pathetic."_

_"Why?" Sam pleads, reaching fruitlessly towards Dean. Sam could save him, if he could just reach... "Why are you doing this?"_

_"Well," Mer says slowly, tasting the words. She turns towards him and her eyes glow yellow. "Sometimes we have to sacrifice to get what we want." The words send a cold chill down Sam's spine. Mer turns back to Dean's death scene, shrugs, and stuffs her mouth full of burger._

_Sam sinks to his knees and the pool of blood reaches him, stains his jeans. Dean's eyes are vacant in death._

You could save him. _It's not Mer beside him anymore. It's...him. But not. But it is. He's darker, more dangerous. Powerful. His mirror image looks at him and Sam feels hollowed out. He has no secrets here._

You can save him, _the shadowy version of himself whispers._Let me help you._It comes closer and all Sam can see is the spreading pool of blood under his brother, the weakening pulse of his heart. He _can_save Dean. He can feel the power waiting. All he has to do is accept it._

_"Uncle Sam," Mer drawls from beside Dean, gun trained steadily on him. Her smile seems to get colder every time. The knife at Dean's throat gleams. Sam realizes then that he can't save her. But he can save Dean. Sam turns to the shadow and—_

"WAKE UP!" Sam bolts upright, heart pounding. His mind swims with the dream and it takes him a moment to register Dean, alive and unharmed. And laughing uproariously.

"Dean!" Sam's ear hurts.

"Dude, you should see your face. Come on, Professor," Dean laughs, slapping Sam on the back. Shit, that stings. "You have class today." With his bachelor's from Stanford and a little computer hackery, Sam has a job at the local community college. He augments his teacher's salary by editing and contributing to several journals and publications around the country. They also have a pretty lucrative side business selling hunting gear, but that income never seems to make it onto their taxes.

"DAD! YOU DID **NOT** MAKE ME PEANUT BUTTER JELLY!" Mer's incensed voice makes Sam clench his jaw so hard he gives himself a headache. He can hear her stomping around the kitchen. "I HATE PB-N-J! AND I'M NOT TWELVE EITHER!"

"YOU'RE WELCOME TO MAKE YOURSELF LUNCH, BRAT!" Dean yells back, rolling his eyes. Sam uses his distraction to pull Dean down on the bed and wrap him in a bear hug, rubbing his nose against Dean's neck.

"What the fuck, Sammy, get off me!" Dean protests, but he's laughing and his hands roam across Sam's back encouragingly. Sam keeps kissing him until Dean gives in and kisses back, arms wrapped securely around Sam. Dean wears domesticity well. According to Whit it had taken a few years to get him into it, to calm him down and really think of this place as home, but once he had...Sam's still startled sometimes by Dean's openness in this house.

Sam licks his way into Dean's mouth and slides his hands down to cup an ass still firm after all these years. He hitches Dean's leg up around his hips, presses up so they both gasp at the pressure.

"Oh—seriously, you guys? This is going on my therapy bill!" Sam groans and buries his face in the curve of Dean's neck. He really can't deal with Mer and a raging hard-on right now. He only has the faculties to deal with one inconvenience at a time, which may actually be a good thing.

"You could always knock," Dean says snidely, making a production of pressing a wet, loud kiss to Sam's lips. Mer makes a singularly disgusted sound that cracks them both up even as they try to hide their reactions.

"Gross. I have never wanted to go to school so bad in my life!" Mer huffs, but there's something warm and happy underneath her words. "But we really do need to talk about this peanut butter jelly BS, Dad. It's totes unacceptable." Dean's eyes squint—Sam notices his crow's feet are a little deeper and don't really disappear these days—and his nostrils flare. He really, really, really loathes the word 'totes.' Sam feels Mer's gleeful amusement at her father's predictable reaction and his lips twitch up in response; he quickly schools his face into a neutral expression before Dean catches him.

"Losechesters! You had _all_ better be up and about or I'm going on the war path!" Whit's voice calls from the kitchen. Dean smells pancakes and bacon and his stomach rumbles. "And I'll let Damien eat your breakfast!"

"WHIT!" Mer yells, excited at the prospect of having another person on her side. She sprints out of the room without a backwards glance. "DAD MADE ME PB-N-J! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?"

"You poor, miserable thing. How ever will you deal?" comes Whit's sarcastic reply. Their voices fade to a more intimate level as they tuck into whatever food Whit brought over. Damien's low rumble joins them soon after. Ah, the sounds of domesticity.

"Garage day?" Sam asks softly, breathing in Dean's scent. It soothes the disquiet, chases away the lingering remnants of his nightmare. Dean starts rubbing soft circles along Sam's shoulders, coaxing him to relax. He long ago stopped asking what Sam dreams about, but he always knows when they're bad.

"Yep. Got a couple of young bucks stopping by later too," Dean murmurs, settling into Sam's embrace. He radiates quiet, soothing contentment.

"Young bucks? Are you going to start calling people idjits too?" Sam teases, nipping at Dean's ear.

"I—"

"DEAN! SAM! BREAKFAST. NOW!"

"The banshee calleth," Dean groans. "Doesn't she have her own house?" He heaves himself up and off the bed looking put-upon and irritated. And not a little bit rumpled. Sam stretches and grins at how Dean watches the slide of the blankets down his chest. It takes a little longer in the gym these days, but it's totally worth it to see that look on Dean's face.

"You sure you wanna go today?" Sam asks innocently. He walks his fingers down his chest. "It's Friday. I could make skipping worth your while..." His hand disappears underneath the cruelly situated blanket blocking Dean's view.

"Jesus fuck," Dean breathes, eyes glazing over.

"LAST WARNING!" Whit's screech jars Dean out of his Sam-induced stupor. Sam pulls a pillow over his face and screams his frustration into it.

"WE'RE COMING YOU FUCKING HARPY!" Dean yells downstairs, supremely annoyed. "Sorry, buddy. Maybe later," he directs towards his crotch. Sam snorts and flings the pillow at Dean.

"FUCKING WATCH YOUR GODDAMNED SHIT-TASTIC LANGUAGE, DEANY-WEENEY!" Whit fires back.

"YOU CAN KISS MY ASS, YOU SOUL-SUCKING HELL BITCH!"

"THANK YOU ALL FOR DONATING GENEROUSLY TO THE MARY WINCHESTER COLLEGE FUND!" Mer hollers, putting an abrupt end to the Whit/Dean death match of doom. Sam starts laughing—Mer's swear jar is actually a bank account opened years ago with a lot of money in it, mostly courtesy of Dean—and Dean whips the pillow back at him. Sam flails and splutters, searching around for ammunition but Dean darts away calling over his shoulder, "Come on, Sammy, pancakes!"

* * *

"I'm out, see you later!" Mer calls as she sweeps through the room.

"Freeze!"

"Damn it, Bob," Mer grumbles, glaring at the door. So close to freedom. She makes sure her parents can't miss how irritated she is with them, projecting it forward and ignoring the little flair of guilt when her dad flinches. If he wasn't so _unreasonable_...

"Where are you going?" Dean asks, keeping his voice as calm and non-combative as possible.

"Where do I always go?" Mer demands, turning to face her parents, sneer firmly in place. "The Tree. Do you seriously have to ask _every time_?" Dean ignores her brittle tone.

"Who's going with you?"

"Dad."

"Mer."

"Oh my God, are you joking?" Dean keeps his face blank and expectant. He's got this whole parent thing down so good. Mer rolls her eyes and rattles off in annoyed teenager monotone, "Viv, Jer, Lissa, Dane, Max, half the entire high school, some college freshmen I plan to have hot monkey sex with in Farmer Grodin's corn field..." Dean ignores the last bit. Mer's friends would hardly appreciate it if he showed up at their favorite hangout with two shotguns, a Ruger, and enough C4 to turn the entire clearing into a smoking crater.

"Finn?" Dean asks as nonchalantly as possible. Mer looks derisively confused, which Dean has to admit is a pretty impressive expression.

"Ye-ah," she drawls. _You're an idiot_ couldn't have been clearer if she'd actually said the words. "I'm driving. Why?"

"No reason," Dean says mildly. "Have fun. Don't do anything stupid." Mer stares at him for a second before rolling her eyes at some internal conversation and shaking her head.

"Whatever. I have my phone." Dean opens his mouth but Mer beats him to the punch: "And my knife. And my spare knife. And there's a Glock and three clips hidden underneath my seat. I'll be fine." The door closes loudly behind her.

"Of course you will," Dean mutters. He may have a handle on dealing with his kid (an assumption that varies from day to day), but he still hasn't figured out how to deal with her gradual pulling away, not knowing where she is and how she's doing every minute of the day as she keeps her cards closer to her chest. The general knot of her emotions at the back of his head isn't the same; he got used to being able to check in on her when she was younger, and now it feels like he's losing her, like she's growing up and growing away. It happens to all teenagers, Whit assures him, but it's hard. And he can't even talk to Sam about it because he closes up like a clam whenever Mer's so much as mentioned.

Dean rubs the bridge of his nose. The tension simmering between the two of them is hard to bear. School ends for the summer next week. Dean doesn't want to think about all the time Mer and Sam will be spending around each other and how long it's going to take for them to start trying to kill one another. But that's next week's problem; for now, they've got the house to themselves.

Dean flops down on the couch and shoves his feet in Sam's lap, mindful of the book Sam's reading. He manages to send it skittering just out of convenient reach. Dean awards himself two points, and a bonus for the way Sam glares at his empty hands.

"Rub my feet," Dean commands, kicking Sam in the ribs.

"What's the magic word?" Sam says in his snidest tone. Dean can see him debating whether or not to levitate the book into his hands with his freaky mind powers.

"How could I forget? Rub my feet, _bitch_." Sam's eyes narrow and Dean smiles lazily at him. Dean can taste the flavor of Sam's thoughts, and he likes the direction they're going. A lot.

He's pleasantly surprised when Sam smiles and presses his thumb into the arch of one foot, rubbing away the tension there. His other hand lazily strokes an ankle, tracing the delicate bones. Dean relaxes into the soothing rhythm, letting his worries about Mer recede. He hadn't expected Sam to be accommodating, but it's nice. He'd broken his foot a few years ago on a hunt and now it aches at the most random times. Dean lets the bliss of Sam's massage lull him into a wonderful half-sleep.

Which is why Dean's justifiably unprepared when Sam's hands shift to wrap around his ankles and he's summarily yanked down the couch.

"What the—Sam!" Dean objects, struggling even though he's well and truly caught. Sam smirks at him, stupid hair flopping down into his face.

"My bitch," Sam growls playfully and latches onto Dean's neck. Sam sucks a hickey into the smooth skin of Dean's neck. It's one of Dean's hotspots and it never fails to drive him wild. Dean resists as much as he can, 'cause he likes Sam to work for it, but Sam knows all his weaknesses. He can make Dean come in under five minutes if he tries.

"Mine," Sam whispers in Dean's ear. He bites down on the lobe, pulling it between his teeth. Dean swears and clings to Sam. His fingers tangle in the thin material of Sam's shirt, well-worn and threadbare. His possessive desire dances over Dean's skin, sinks into him like claws and takes root, a primal urge that surges from the most primitive corners of Sam's being. Dean shudders and gives himself over, lets Sam crawl inside him.

It's like live wires lit inside their head. Sam thinks about moving, about sliding into Dean, and they both feel it. Sam's arousal wraps around Dean's, twines together, and it's like even the act of breathing is so erotic that one deep breath will make them come. Dean drags his foot over Sam's calf and he feels the way his touch zips up Sam's nerves and straight to the pleasure center of his brain.

"Mine," Dean returns, speaking the words against Sam's collarbone. The vibrations of his chest and the heat of his breath tickle over Sam's skin, sends the mental link between them singing. Sam claims Dean's mouth in a brutal, demanding kiss. He takes Dean's words and sends them back as pictures, the two of them on their bed, morning light filtering through.

_Incandescent_, Sam thinks as he hurtles towards release. It almost feels secondary to the sharpness of Dean's pleasure.

"Is guna-ha," Dean says. Much, much later Sam laughs against his shoulder, hair tickling Dean's chin. He's content here, wrapped in Sammy's arms, pressed together, surrounded by the sound of their hearts beating in time, slow and even.

"Know the best part?" Sam murmurs, well-versed in translating Dean's post-coital language. Dean grunts, eyes sliding closed. "She's gone for at least another three hours." Dean's eyes fly open and he grins.

* * *

"You are the worst teenager that ever lived!" Finn wails despondently. "You're a horrible person. You're killing me. _Killing me._ On my tombstone, please write 'Here lies Finn, who tragically died of no social life, blame Mary Winchester. She is a horrible no good very bad person.'"

"Please, just because I don't feel like chauffeuring you to the bonfire tonight does not make me—"

"It does! It absolutely does! Mer, Mary, Mary-Mer, best friend in ever, if I had a car I wouldn't hesitate to pick you up. I would drive to the ends of the Earth to take you out on the town. Because that's what friends do!"

"You used to have a car. Remember what happened to it?" Mer asks, sounding smug and superior.

"I still maintain that tree struck my car with malicious intent and the road did not need to curve that quickly."

"A tree never hits a car except in self defense."

"Friends don't let friends stay at home on a Friday night!" Finn yells into the phone, flopping down on his bed. "Am I going to have to get a new best friend?"

"Friends don't try to guilt trip friends when they don't feel like doing something!"

"That...that is a blatant lie. Our entire relationship is one giant guilt trip. Speaking of, you owe me for that time with the My Little Pony."

"Good night, Finn."

"MARY LUELLEN WINCHESTER THE ONLY!"

"Luellen?" Mer asks deadpan, rolling her eyes.

"You are seventeen years old. You are in the prime of your life. You owe it to God, the Winchester name, your hormones and the slinky black underwear you say you don't have to go out tonight! Do not let me down! SUIT UP, WOMAN."

"Finnigan."

"Yes?"

"Thirty seconds or the train is leaving. One...two...three..."

"SONOFA—YOU BITCH!" Mer cackles gleefully and tosses her phone in the center console. It takes Finn less than ten second to get from his room, down the stairs, and out the door. He's panting and flushed by the time he throws himself into the passenger seat, hair a little wild. "You're really not as funny as you think you are."

"I am _exactly_ as funny as I think I am!" Mer laughs, and floors it. Finn swears as the force pins him back against the seat. This is why he always drives: Mer drives like a maniac.

* * *

"God, this is just..." Mer trails off, searching for the right word. She shakes her head in dismay and sips her rapidly warming beer. There are about thirty kids at the Tree, a bonfire blazing merrily in the center of their gathering. They have their cliques and clumps, though there's mingling at the drinks area. But the main attraction is happening right around the fire where two different couples have set up camp.

"Tragic?" Viv offers, making a disgusted face as she watches Jer slip his hand down the curve of Lena McInty's ass. He "casually" glances over his shoulder towards where Lissa laughs loudly at something Max Whigham didn't say.

"Amusing!" Dane counters, sticking his tongue out at Viv when she swipes at him, a task made more difficult as Chelsea's sitting between them.

"Hey!" Chelsea protests. Viv's attack upsets her wine cooler and the liquid sloshes over the side. "Watch the pants! Watch the fuckin' pants!"

"...pathetic," Mer settles on, ignoring her friend's antics as her eyes jump from Lissa and Jer standing on opposite sides of the fire with their various entourages in tow. Lissa is hurt and frustrated and confused. Jer is confused and hurt and frustrated. They're both pining for each other and Mer is about two minutes away from bashing their stupid little heads together, but Missouri had told her relationships form in their own ways for their own reasons in their own time and too much meddling can be detrimental. Mer isn't quite sold on that theory. And she's not sure the constant headaches their angst-tastic emotions give her are worth it. Or listening to Lissa bitch about who Jer's been fucking at college.

A pleasurable, boneless lassitude hits Mer's senses and she winces, wishing once again that she was less familiar with Finn's extracurricular exploits. Moments later Finn materializes from the darkness and slides onto the bench of their picnic table with careful drunkenness.

"What's going on, what'd'I miss?" Finn asks. His hair is even messier than usual and he moves with a languidness they've all come to associate with Finn just getting laid. Sure enough, Dana Mendoza ambles out of the darkness looking flushed and pleased with herself, cheeks a little red. Mer reaches out and feels satisfaction and a lingering pulse of pleasure that makes her blush. Mer has no idea why she does it, but chalks it up to morbid, perverse curiosity about her best friend. Finn watches Dana cross the grounds, a smug smirk on his face and self-satisfaction radiating from him like the sun. Mer flicks him in the ear.

"Hey!" Finn protests, glaring.

"We're watching Jer and Lissa's pathetic attempt at courtship," Mer informs him primly.

"Oh God, they're still making each other miserable?" Finn groans and slouches against Mer's legs. She starts making shapes with his hair, which obligingly sticks up without the aid of gel.

"Lissa waited for Jer to catch a clue and invite her to the bonfire, and when he didn't, settled for Max. Which, ew," Viv says, shuddering delicately. She dated Max for five minutes in middle school and they've hated each other ever since.

"And in retaliation, Jer showed up with Lena McInty," Dane adds. "Which could be a good choice because I heard she gave Charles Eckley a blow job behind the gym yesterday."

"DANE!" Mer and Chelsea yell, both of them punching him in the shoulder. Viv makes a delicately disgusted sound and pointedly ignores Dane's crassness.

"Didn't Lena and Max just break up?" Finn asks, getting them all back on track with the gossip.

"Exactly," Chelsea picks up the story, jerking her head towards the couples in question, all of whom are working to make someone jealous. It's like a weirdly coordinated dance, each pair moving in turn, one-upping the other. Jer and Lena are pressed close, their bodies grinding together like they're listening to Flo Ryda instead of some languishing emo power ballad. "The first thing Lissa did when she got here and saw Jer? She started macking on Max hardcore. Like, 'Oh baby, let's go out in the fields and play Children of the Corn' style."

"That's not a disturbing euphemism at all," Mer mutters. She wonders if she can _nudge_ her idiot friends in the right direction. Especially before Jer heads back to college. She sighs heavily and shakes her head. People are complicated. She glances sideways at her friends and gets distracted by Finn who... "Finn? Are you...taking notes?" Finn looks up from the small spiral notebook he pulled out from...somewhere.

"Well, yeah. I have at least four seasons worth of soap opera material already. Need to get this down before the muse leaves me. Or, you know, finally hooks up. I'm totally going to write the next _Desperate Housewives!_" Finn says with a grin.

"What are you going to call it, _Fast Times in the Middle of Nowhere_?" Chelsea asks sourly. Mer shakes her head and looks away; the conversations around her are old and familiar. Chelsea hates Iowa, hates their town. She feels stifled by it, by the small-town mentalities that crop up here and there. She thinks she belongs in some grand city like New York or LA. Mer thinks she'll be the first person to leave and the first person to come back.

"I'd definitely watch a show about Iowa. That's must-see TV right there!" Finn says with an irrepressible grin. He wants cheetos so bad Mer can taste them so she absently snags the bag from behind her and hands them to Finn, concentrating on sending Jer and Lissa subtle "get over yourself" vibes. It takes a moment for her to register that her friends have fallen silent around her and they're all staring.

"What?" Mer asks, confused. She brushes her fingers over her face, then over her hair.

"Thanks for handing me the Cheetos for no particular reason even though I was totally craving them without realizing it," Finn says breezily, and everyone laughs. Mer ducks her head and to hide her blush, even though she can feel the gentle acceptance and genuine amusement of her friends. She doesn't slip up a lot; she generally keeps a tight rein on her shields. Except these are her friends and they figured out long ago there's something a little _extra_ about her. They're a part of her, and she gets to relax around them. And she may be a little bit tipsy.

Finn nudges her, his bony elbow digging into her side. She slants a sideways look at him. _Cheeeeeeeeetooooooos! Cheeeeeeeettttoooooosss!_ echoes through her mind.

No one thinks twice when Finn and Mer dissolve into giggles for no apparent reason.

* * *

Mer drags Finn's drunk ass home with her. Somewhere she lost track of him and he'd gotten into a drinking contest with Kirk Wulner and the rest of the football team, who'd done water shots to Finn's basement vodka shots. And now he's draped over Mer like a Snuggy with alcohol poisoning.

"Mer, Mer, Mer, Mary-Mer-Mer!" Fin sings and giggles. "You're my very own merry Mary Mer!"

"Seriously, Finnigan? How many shots did you take?"

"I'm this many!" Finn announces and tries to hold up the correct number of fingers. Unfortunately, this means he takes his hands off Mer and fails to balance on his own, careening into her with all his drunken dead weight. Mer stumbles and almost face-plants into the bushes.

"Finn!" she hisses, trying to keep her voice down. Finn's finally got seven fingers up, but his frown of concentration means he's seriously debating whether or not that's right. Mer vows to figure out a way to make her super powers cure drunkenness because this is ridiculous. As it is, she has to carefully prop Finn up carefully with her mind in order to get the door open.

"That issocool!" Finn slurs at her. He won't remember it in the morning; he never does.

"Finnigan, shut the hell up," Mer grunts and hitches his arm more securely over her shoulder. Finn's chest rumbles and he burps lightly.

"Be wery wery quiet!" Finn whispers drunkenly, then starts giggling. They crash into the front table and Mer groans. No way her Dads are actually sleeping through this; the most she can hope for is they ignore the teenage debauchery and stay put in their room. Well, she could hope they're otherwise occupied but...

Finn moans pitifully and tries to double over.

"Don't you dare throw up on me, Finn!" she hisses and drags him up the stairs to the first floor. "Fuck."

"Mary."

"Dad. Hi." Finn raises his head but promptly lets it hang loose again.

"Hey, Misser Winchesser!" Finn says to the ground. He raises the arm not holding onto Mer in a sloppy wave.

Dean purses his lips—mostly to stop from laughing 'cause that would totally destroy the disappointed parent look he's got going on—and turns his attention to his daughter. He arches an eyebrow, silently demanding an explanation and maintaining his carefully cultivated expression.

"_I'm_ not drunk," Mer says defensively. Dean's other eyebrow joins the first. "I'm not! I only had two beers the whole night. I swear."

"Finn can crash in the guest room. And you can come right back down here once you get Drunky McDrunkerson tucked in."

Mer thinks about arguing but Finn starts swaying. She nods and drags Finn up the stairs to Whit's old room. Finn sprawls on the bed, murmurs something indistinct, and passes out. Mer rolls her eyes and puts a trash can beside the bed. She closes her eyes and leaves a little suggestion in Finn's mind so that if he does wake up to vomit, he'll have the overwhelming urge to hit the trash instead of the floor. She's going to get a stern talking-to next time Missouri calls, but it'll be worth it not to clean up in the morning.

Reluctantly, she heads downstairs. She glances into her parent's bedroom and frowns at the mess strewn over the bed. There are two familiar duffle bags on the floor.

"Mer!" her dad calls from the living room.

"Jesus Christ, I'm coming," she mutters to herself.

"I heard that!"

"You heard nothing," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Did so!" Dean insists.

"Oh yeah? How much do I owe the swear jar then?" Dean eyeballs his kid and tries to figure out if this is a trick question.

"Two," he settles on.

"Yeah, you didn't hear shit."

"Mer!"

"What?"

"You're grounded."

"Dad! That's—"

"Fair considering Lissa got grounded for a month."

"Hypocritical."

"My past," Dean says with all the parental entitlement he can muster, "is not the yardstick by which you may judge your life and your liberties."

"Hi, Whitney, where'd you come from?" Mer asks sarcastically. Dean thinks for a second about how to respond to that.

"You're right, I should have put that in my own words. So: drinking is evil, it leads to drugs, teenage pregnancy and listening to John Mayer. Don't do it."

"Tell that to Jim, Jack, Jose and Captain Morgan. They're having a party back behind the flour."

"That...is for emergencies," Dean splutters.

"Emergencies? Like, 'Oh my God Oprah actually _is_ screwing Gail, I need a drink STAT?' That kind of emergency?"

"You're still grounded," Dean says, scowling. Mer glares, jaw setting in the way that means she's gearing up for war, and the seriousness of the situation settles heavily on Dean. "Alcohol weakens your shields. It makes you slow, screws with your reaction time. So I don't care if it's one beer or two, you got me?" He projects his worry and fear, ruthlessly exploiting the one advantage he still has.

"I got you," Mer says softly. "Sorry. About Finn too. He's..."

"Finn," Dean says wryly. Mer smirks at him and they share a look of mutual understanding. Dean's no narc, so Finn's dad won't hear anything about his son's exploits from him, but John has a way of ferreting out information about his kid so Finn may be spending a lot of time in his room for the foreseeable future.

"So why are you guys up anyways?" Mer asks. There's something about the way she says is and crosses her arms that makes Dean uncomfortable. Like he's walking into a trap.

"Oh. Uh, we..."

"You're going on a hunt," Mer says flatly; she's felt the niggling restlessness for the past few days and has been waiting for the announcement. Dean meets his daughter's look without flinching, which he counts as a win. Mer's eyes turn flinty and her nostrils flair in disapproval. "Oooooof course you are. Don't come back dead, okay? And don't expect me to wait up." Mer turns to leave, anger simmering bright within her.

"Mer!" Dean grabs her arm to prevent her from storming off. "Mary! We are not done talking."

"Didn't sound like much of a conversation to me," Mer snarls, jerking her arm out of his hold. "Sounds like you're telling me—"

"Yeah, I'm _telling_ you, because I am the Dad and you are the kid and I get to do that now!" Dean's not quite yelling. Yet. Anger and frustration simmers between them.

"You started hunting when you were fourteen," Mer says, as if that has any bearing on the here and now.

"Thirteen," Dean corrects, and winces when Mer glares at him. He's not helping himself at all. "And you'll never start if I can help it."

"Dad!"

"No. Hunting...I don't know how to do anything else. And it's not a life I want for you. The hunting, the drinking, it's all...those things...I never want to lay awake at night and wonder if you're not coming home. If some supernatural thing caught up with you and I wasn't there..."

"I can pick up _boulders_ with my _mind_. You've trained me my entire life to do something I'm not even allowed to do!"

"We've trained you to protect yourself, not to throw your life away."

"Is that how you feel about your life?" Mer challenges. "About me?"

"Don't do that," Dean warns. "Do _not_ do that." Of all the annoying habits she's picked up from Sam, this is the one he hates most, the part where they twist his words and pick them apart until even Dean doesn't remember what he meant.

Mer glares down at the floor, anger and resentment rolling off her. Dean feels her start to pull away, packing away her emotions one by one until she's just a slick, smooth surface of dead calm. The unnatural placidity of her mind grates on Dean just as much as her roiling mass of teenage emotions.

"It's late," Mer says, voice inflectionless. Her eyes focus on the mid-distance, somewhere over Dean's shoulder. "We can talk about this later." Dean doesn't know whether to be grateful she's more mature than he'll ever be, walking away before they say something they'll regret, or to be pissed at the inherent dismissal in her words.

He nods sharply and watches her walk stiffly out of the room.

* * *

Sam listens to Dean and Mer fight from the bedroom. The flatness of her voice as she dismisses Dean at the end sends chills up Sam's spine. His dream-visions flash before him, lightening-quick: the smell of fresh blood, _Dean's_ blood, Mer's chilling smile, the gleam of a bloody knife.

_Protect him at all costs,_ his instincts scream.

_Neutralize the threat,_ his training tells him.

Sam chokes on the taste of bile, closes his eyes and forces the images away. He slows his breathing and calms himself by dint of will alone. He can't do this much longer. He can't fight his instincts and training every second of every day—he can already feel himself fraying and unraveling at the edges. He needs to sort out what's going on. Get his head on straight.

He needs to get away.


	22. Book Two: Chapter 2

**Divergent Horizons, Chapter 2**

Dean walks across the street before they leave to say goodbye to Whit and Damien and drop hints about Mer's latest snit. She hasn't talked to him since their fight this morning, just looked scornfully at his packed duffel and shut herself in her room.

"Dean," Whit interrupts his bitchfest, exasperated, "my mom and I couldn't speak five civil words to each other when I was a teenager. It was like World War III erupted on a regular basis. We even reenacted the Cold War a few times."

"Impossible," Dean says dismissively. Whit arches an eloquent eyebrow in question. "Sam and Dad had the Cold War on lock. You were, like, the Cuban Missile Crisis at best." Whit laughs and bounces a crumpled up paper towel off Dean's head.

"Shut up, Losechester." She makes shooing motions and starts herding Dean out the door. "You and Sam take a break. Go on your little hunty thing. Have obnoxiously loud sex without the kid around. I'll talk to Mer."

"My 'little hunty thing' is a dangerous creature of darkness and evil!" Dean gripes, pouting. He exchanges a weary look with Damien, who gives him a mock salute. "It's not a vacation!"

"Uh huh." Whit keeps nudging him towards the door. Dean manages to snag a sandwich off the island before Whit can stop him.

"Werewolves are dangerous! I could come back maimed and disfigured!" Dean wails. At least, that's what Whit thinks he says around the massive bite of sandwich stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Might be an improvement," Whit points out, always quick to find the silver lining in any situation.

"I hate you!" Dean yells at her as the door closes.

"I'll put lilies on your coffin, Deany-Weeny!" Whit responds, voice muffled by the wood.

"I'm going to come back as a werewolf just to eat you, you heartless bitch!" Dean hollers back. Always does have to get in the last word. "Don't let Mer throw any parties at the house!"

* * *

Mer ignores the knocks on her door, the announcements that they're leaving, the heartfelt sighs. She watches from her window, hidden by the drapes, when they go. Her Dad looks up at her room one final time before he climbs into the Impala. She especially ignores the half-hearted wave he gives in hopes that she really is watching.

* * *

The farther they get from Saybrook the lighter Sam feels. By the time they pull into a ramshackle motel right outside of Fayetteville, Arkansas, he's practically giddy and fidgeting and Dean is giving him the stink eye. Sam doesn't care. Mer is 400 miles away and Dean is safe and they're _hunting_. Anticipation makes him grin so wide his cheeks hurt.

Dean shakes his head and mutters something unflattering that Sam, being the magnanimous human being he is, ignores. He pulls out their bags while Dean gets them a room just so he has something to do. He needs to move. He feels good, energized. They're wasting time.

Dean exits the rundown office with two honest-to-God keys in his hand, garish fobs hanging off the ends. Sam picks up their bags and steps up to meet him. Dean stops for a moment and stares, as if he's never seen Sam shoulder two duffel bags before. Granted, Sam has usually just lost a bet, but Dean doesn't have to be a jerk about it. Sam waits impatiently for Dean to come to whatever conclusion he's looking for.

"Come on then, Hoke," Dean finally says. "We're in room seven." Sam obediently follows Dean and wonders when he got those jeans. They look pretty fantastic, the brand logo etched in red thread on one pocket. Dean bends over slightly as he unlocks the door and the fabric pulls tight. Sam figures he could strip them off Dean's body in about ten seconds.

Dean tosses the keys on a shaky-looking table.

"We should probably—" Sam doesn't let him finish, just knocks Dean down onto the bed, their legs dangling over the side. The duffels hit the floor with a dull thunk and Sam vaguely registers the sound of the door closing.

"Jesus, _Sam_!" Sam was wrong. It only takes him eight seconds to pants Dean—who is conveniently going commando today—and that's the last thought he spares for the jeans.

* * *

Sam lets himself fall on Dean, eyes sliding closed in post-coital exhaustion. The world around him is still, his mind at ease. He floats along on his contentment; there's still a part of him mentally wrapped around Dean, warm and loose.

Dean starts squirming, Sam's weight making him uncomfortable. Sam lets Dean push him around, too tired to really help. Dean gives a little gasp of pain when the movements pull at his neck.

"Dude!" Dean runs a finger over his shoulder and winces. Sam left him with one hell of a hickey—not for the first time, but Dean can feel that this one is particularly deep. Sammy and his incessant need to mark him. "You turning into a vampire?"

"Mmm, mine," Sam says sleepily, tightening his hold on Dean.

"Yeah yeah, you're a possessive fuck, I get it," Dean sighs, but he runs a hand gently through Sam's hair. He rolls into Sam and resigns himself to being Sam's personal a teddy bear.

Outside of the hotel room, a man finished painting a series of symbols over the unprotected door. He can still feel the remnants of the lust spell lingering around this place. He uses the energy to add to his casting.

He double checks the neat, precise rows of symbols, making adjustments and wiping off the places where the dark, thick liquid has run. When he is content with his efforts, he names each one, imbuing it with power and purpose.

He sends Sam Winchester more than dreams. He sends the human terror and helplessness and pain and keeps his target locked in his body, limbs frozen in dream-paralysis, as he watches his most beloved die over and over again. He calls up memories from Sam's past, the happiest he can find, and lays fear over them. Instead of laughter there are screams of death and loss. Where he teaches Mer to use her powers, to school her mind, there are future fears and paranoia and guilt—he gave her to the tools to kill.

It is not an easy spell, but Nybbas has been doing this for years.

* * *

Sam wakes up in silence, limbs frozen, his heart hammering in his chest. Someone touches him and he reacts instinctually, lashing out and scrambling off the bed. Awareness creeps in through the veil of his panicked breathing.

"You okay?" He jerks back and hits his head against the wall. Dean is crouched over him, concerned, a dark mark near his eye. "What happened?" Sam tries to speak but his throat closes and his body freezes in fear. A part of him desperately wants to confide in Dean, tell him about the reoccurring nightmare that has plagued his sleep, but he can't. He's been silent for too long.

Dean pulls away.

"Dean..." Sam pleads, grabbing Dean's arm. He tries to reach for Dean's mind, but he's locked out. Sam looks at Dean helplessly. Dean regards him steadily for a few seconds and then gently removes Sam's hand from his arm. He stands up and heads towards the bathroom.

"Come on Sammy, we've got a werewolf to kill," Dean calls over his shoulder. Sam winces at the soft click of the bathroom door.

* * *

Whit grins to herself as she watches Damien putter around the room, pulling on clothes and pushing the knickknacks on their dresser around. It's a lazy Sunday morning and her husband's leaving for a month-long recruiting trip for the hospital—in Albuquerque, of all places—at the end of the month, so Whitney feels justified laying here and watching him. They trade glances in the mirror like they're newlyweds who can't get enough of each other. Damien grins slowly, knowingly, and Whit hides her face in her pillow, fighting her blush. God, she even feels like a newlywed.

"What in tarnation is going on in here?" They both jump at the unexpected interruption and Damien blushes bright red. Mer looks at them suspiciously, eyes narrowed. Whit groans because there's really no point in trying to hide anything from her and they both know it. Damien, the spineless shit, escapes into the bathroom just as Mer figures it out.

"Ohmigod! Oh my God, WHIT!" The bed bounces as Mer throws herself on it, pushing Whit over on her back and pulling the covers down. She peers curiously at Whit's stomach then pokes it experimentally.

"You brat!" Whit says with a laugh and grabs a pillow off the bed to swat her. Mer giggles and dodges, claiming her own pillow and deflecting Whit's blows. They tussle for a little while until they're both out of breath and panting lightly. Whit grins up at the ceiling and lays a hand protectively on her stomach.

"Are you..." Mer trails off, looking pointedly at Whit's hand.

"I dunno," Whit murmurs. "We only decided to try last night. You tell me." Mer closes her eyes and puts her hand over Whit's, the two of them splayed in a protective embrace, as if there's already life growing there. Whit's pretty sure she's not pregnant. Yet. But she bets Mer will be better than a pregnancy test.

"Nope," Mer says. "No buns in your oven. I hope Dame's not shooting blanks."

"Mer! You did not just say that!" Whit moans, covering her face. Mer is her father's child, throwing innuendo and inappropriateness around like it's going out of style. She's seventeen and growing up, but Whit can't shake the memories of Mer as a toddler, the kid who stayed up and played until she keeled over on her feet, out of gas. Mer props herself up on her elbow and grins at Whit, so filled with bubbly energy Whit has a vision: Mer at five, grinning at her with mischievous intent, green eyes sparkling, poised on the top of the dress just waiting for one of her dads to come in so she could fly.

"Seriously, are you going to give me a little sister? I want a little sister. DAMIEN! YOU HEAR ME? SISTER! TELL YOUR X'ER SPERMIES THEY BETTER GET CRACKIN'!" There goes baby Mer, whoosh, right out the door.

"Mer!" Whit censures, but it lacks any real sting because she's too busy laughing.

"My X'ers tell me they've taken your request into consideration!" Damien calls from the bathroom. There's only a slight strain in his voice that tells them he's embarrassed beyond belief. Really, he's been doing much better over the last few years.

"If you promise me a little sister, I won't tell the dads," Mer bargains. Oh God. Whit covers her eyes with a hand. She can't imagine dealing with Sam and Dean while she's pregnant. They're bad enough as it is: frazzled mother hens who worry about everyone but themselves. Oh God, and the things Dean will _say_ to Damien...

It's definitely in everyone's best interest that Sam and Dean stay in the dark as long as possible. Ideally till right about when the nurses are filling out the birth certificate.

"Deal," Whit agrees, and they shake on it. Mer beams at the ceiling. Whit can see the gears in her head working overtime, everything from names to her little sister's introduction to the Winchester Prank War.

"I am going to be the best big sister ever!" Mer announces giddily, and Whit doesn't doubt her for a second. She reaches over and ruffles Mer's hair, ridiculously content that she had something to do with raising the young woman beside her.

"I hope you're ready for babysitting duty," Whit teases.

"If you can afford me," Mer fires back, but she's clearly a hundred miles away making plans for Whit's as yet unconceived child. Damien is still hiding in the bathroom when Mer sits bolt upright, eyes wide. "Dude, can we go buy baby clothes today?"

* * *

"Heeeere, wolfie wolfie wolfie! Calling the werewolf formerly known as Madison. I've got some silver with your name on it." Dean carefully eases a door open, vigilant for attack. He really fucking hates werewolves. "I really fucking hate werewolves." Dean clears the room and the closet. They've been through almost the entire house without any sign of the werewolf. The silence of the house sets Dean on edge—silence is never good.

"It's not here." Dean whirls around, shotgun raised.

"GodDAMN it, Sam!" Dean lowers his gun and glares, trying to ignore the way his heart is racing. "Don't do that." Really, Sam knows better than to sneak up on him during a hunt. It's sloppy work and Sam could have ended up with buckshot in his chest.

"Dean, it's not here," Sam gripes, blithely ignoring Dean and the gun pointed at his chest. He's practically vibrating with tension, fingers drumming against the barrel of his shotgun, eyes darting restlessly around the room. Dean carefully opens himself to Sam, mental shields sliding back. Sam feels wired, like a junkie riding the razor edge of a high right before he crashes. "Your intel was wrong."

"Maybe that's what it wants us to think," Dean fires back. Sam snorts and sidles over to the window. His agitation seeps into Dean's skin and makes Dean feel edgy. "What's up with you?"

"What?" Sam asks, blinking stupidly. His fingers drum against the window ledge in a quick staccato, shotgun cradled in one arm, brow furrowed.

"You're all..." Dean bounces in place to demonstrate. Sam rolls his eyes and Dean glares. One more thing to avoid with Sam. Dean's felt this...restlessness in Sam for a while now. When they hunt, sometimes when they fuck, an edge of feral desperation tints their encounters. It's usually manageable—Dean thinks of it as a side effect of their lives and the constant life-or-death—but it's gotten worse lately. Strong enough to be a distraction.

"Too much bad coffee at the gas station," Sam says dismissively. Dean can taste the bitterness of the lie and it shocks him. What does Sam have to lie about here? "What do you—"

It happens without any warning. Sam pushes Dean out of the way and then hits the ground hard, the grotesquely muscular werewolf on top of him, jaws snapping. Sam's muscles bulge as he keeps the wolf's teeth away from him, one had wrapped around the beast's throat.

Dean brings his gun up to shoot and the creature turn its attention to him, claws digging into Sam's flesh as it jumps. Dean gets his shotgun wedged between the werewolf's jaws on instinct. Its claws dig into Dean's chest and thighs and slobber drips all over him as the creature lunges forward, trying to rip out his throat. He hits the ground with a thud. Dean's mind is blank of anything but survival.

Dean hears another growl and thinks, _"Fuck there are two."_ Only the werewolf gets hauled off him with a dog-like yelp. Dean belatedly registers pale, corded arms wrapped around the werewolf's ribcage.

He sits up dazedly, arms like jelly, bleeding from the superficial cuts the wolf's claws inflicted on him. Sam and the creature are struggling on the other side of the room, a sheer test of raw physical strength that Sam shouldn't be able to compete in, much less win. Dean stares, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, when Sam grabs the creature's slobbering, gnashing mouth, one hand on each jaw. The wolf screams and a wet, retching sound fills the room.

Sam rips the werewolf's jaw off.

Dean blinks. Blood cascades onto the floor and the werewolf makes soft, unrealized noises deep in its throat. Sam twists the creature's head around and it dies with a gurgle. Dean hears it start to shift back to its human form, but he's arrested by the sight of Sam, eyes wild, wolf's blood drenching the front of his shirt and splattered across his face. His eyes are so dark they look black, Sam stands over his kill, chest heaving and panting.

Dean grunts as he sits up. He's definitely pulled a muscle in his back and he's bleeding in several places. Sam's attention snaps to him and Dean freezes like prey. Danger makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and the oily sensation of something supernatural gathers around them. Sure enough, a breeze starts up, ruffling Sam's hair. Neither of them move. Sam's still sucking in air like he's just run a marathon, eyes boring into Dean without blinking.

Moments pass before the cloying feeling of wrong recedes enough for Dean to venture a wary, "Sammy?" Sam jerks, on high alert, and Dean freezes again. Sam's not _Sam_ right now, not really. This is some darker, more primal side of his brother that Dean's never seen before. But he's gotten tastes of it. He remembers Reno and Bellmont and a handful of small, unrelated incidences that are coming together to paint a very disturbing picture.

Dean takes a deep breath and reaches out for Sam with his mind, trying to calm him down. He's not very good at it. For a second he kicks himself for not joining Mer and Sam in their little practice session. (Back when they_had_practice sessions.) He'd always thought of this as cheating, but right now he'd give his left foot to be able to force Sam back to himself.

When Sam feels calmer, Dean slowly pushes onto his feet, keeping his actions obvious and predictable. "Alright, Sammy. Something fucked up is going on and we're going to figure it out, okay? We need to put holy water on those wounds so you keep that nice hairless thing you got going on your chest. Let's get out to the car, yeah?" He takes a step back and Sam snarls low in his throat, a sound so animalistic Dean's terrified Sam got bitten before he remembers it takes a few weeks for the lycanthropy virus to take hold.

Dean edges towards the threshold. Sam tracks his movements, body shifting so he's half-hidden in the shadows. Dean opens up a little more and gasps. Sam feels...tainted, like the faint aftertaste of milk just gone bad. Like he's just a little bit out of sync with the world. Dean shakes his head to clear it because he's confusing himself.

"Sam," Dean says, barely a breath, but it's enough. Sam slams into him, sending them both tumbling into the hallway. He pins Den to the wall and buries his face in Dean's neck, right over the mark he left last night. Over his shoulder, Dean can see the werewolf lying in a spreading pool of dark blood, ripped apart by Sam's bare hands.

Sam feels hot, like he's burning from a fever. His skin gleams with sweat. He presses an erection into Dean's thigh, but Dean is about as far from being aroused as possible. He grinds his teeth together as Sam bites down on his shoulder, hard, directly over his bruise. Every time Dean tries to twist away, Sam slams him back down, pins him harder. It's almost as if he's enjoying Dean's struggles.

Dean relaxes, just enough for Sam to think he's let down his guard. Sam nuzzles against Dean's neck, licking at his skin, hands letting go of his wrists to slip under clothes; one slithers up Dean's shirt, the other into the waist band of his pants. When Sam's tilted forward, a little off balance, Dean moves.

In the space of a breath, he twists them so he falls on top, pressing his advantage. He jams his knee hard against Sam's crotch, digging the hardest part into his balls. He digs the toe of his other foot into the floor for leverage, pressing all of his weight down against Sam, restricting his movement. His left elbow pins Sam's shoulder to the floor, and his forearm forces Sam's head up and back, tight against his windpipe. He retrieves a silver knife from the sheath at his waist and presses the blade right against Sam's jugular.

Dean's heart pounds in his ears as they hold the stalemate. Dean can still feel the tension in Sam, can still taste the wrongness. It takes a long time for Sam to come back to himself. Dean's never felt such relief to see his brother's eyes widen in horror.

Dean takes a moment to be sure that Sam is back in control before he relaxes his hold.

"What the hell, Sam?" Dean asks. Sam pushes Dean off and scuttles away until his back hits the wall. His eyes are wide, the whites of them large and unmistakable. He's shaking, his breath coming in large, jagged gasps. "Sammy—" Dean steps towards him, hand out, and Sam jerks away from him so hard he dents the drywall.

"Stay back," Sam rasps.

"What the hell is going on, Sam?" Sam shakes his head and buries his face in his hands. Dean carefully sheathes his knife and rocks back on his heels, studying his brother. If he's honest with himself—something he tries to avoid at all costs—this has been building for a while. Dean's been waiting for Sam to talk to him because, well, that's how it works. Sam talks, Dean pretends not to listen, and they deal. Of course, usually it's Dean who has the issue and Sam's prying it out of him with a crowbar and a blowtorch. "Sam. You wanna...talk? About...it?"

"Look, I..." Sam scrubs his face and refuses to meet Dean's eyes. He pulls in on himself, just the barest hint of his emotions on the surface. He pulls away from Dean and _that_ hurts. Sam flinches as Dean's pain/confusion/fear hits him, but he doesn't back down. "I have a lead on a black dog in Kentucky," Sam says neutrally.

Dean blinks. The lie tastes like ash and his gorge rises. He swallows thickly. "Sammy—"

"I think I should take care of it," Sam interrupts, eyes sliding to the side. He takes one step back, then another. The physical distance doesn't hurt as much as the mental wall Sam's put up between them.

The silence stretches interminably, Dean frozen in place. Sam refuses to look at him, and Dean's gaze burns through Sam like a laser.

"You're leaving," Dean says flatly, and Sam cringes. But doesn't back down. He needs some time away. From Mer. God, even from Dean. He needs to clear his head and figure out what's going on with his dreams.

"Not...not forever."


	23. Book Two: Chapter 3

**Divergent Horizons, Chapter 3**

Mer's waiting for him when he gets home. She's got hot chocolate steaming on the table with an entire bag of mini marshmallows just for him. Dean sighs, drops his pack by the door, and sinks gratefully into one of the seats. Mer lets him savor about half his cup before she starts with the Inquisition.

"So where'd he go?" Dean sees Mer tense in reaction to the emotions he can't quite keep to himself. There are times he wishes he could lie to her. Parents are allowed to lie to their kids about stuff—Santa Clause is real, bad things never happen to good people, parents never fight.

"He..." Dean abruptly realizes that he _doesn't know._ He doesn't know where Sam went—it's definitely not Kentucky—or really why he left or when (if) he might be coming back. He can hazard a guess that it has to do with Sam's nightmares and growing animosity with Mer and possibly with Dean himself, but other than those vague, very broad notions? Dean's as much in the dark as Mer because Sam has shut him out.

"What happened?" Mer asks quietly. She picks at the table top. "Was it...did I..."

"No," Dean says quickly, reaching out and grabbing her hand. "It's not you. Sam...Sam kind of lost it on the hunt. Too much stress. He's got some things he needs to figure out." Jesus, that sounds lame even to him. But it's as close to the truth as Dean can get because Sam's been pulling away from all of them for a while now and he doesn't tell Dean things anymore. It's taken Dean this long to admit it, but once it's there he can't take it back. He tries to _show_ this to Mer, but he's not sure if he's helping or making the situation worse.

Mer frowns at the table top. Dean commiserates, language really isn't effective for describing what people feel; emotions are usually tangled and layered, and very confusing. Particularly when the person in question exhibits two seemingly oppositional and contradictory feelings. And Sam is king of confusion.

"I can't...sometimes I lose him," Mer confesses, glancing at him through her hair as if she's admitting a secret. Dean looks at her helplessly, trying to figure out what he's supposed to say. This is Sam's area of expertise, he always seems to get what Mer's trying to say. The have their own shorthand when it comes to their powers

"I don't know what that means," Dean admits. He feels like he's failed her. Mer lets out an annoyed sigh and slouches in her chair. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

"There's you and Atta and Whit in my head," Mer says haltingly. Dean tries to get over the wave of emotion hearing Atta come out of Mer's mouth for the first time in too long. It's been _Uncle Sam_, spit out like a curse, since she was fourteen. "All the time. Okay, this isn't coming out right."

Dean sips his chocolate and lets Mer figure out how to explain things.

"Okay, so my brain is a map," Mer says suddenly.

"A map? Is there buried treasure?"

"Ha ha. Lame." Dean sticks his tongue out at her. Mer huffs.

"Okay, brain map, check," Dean says, signaling her to get back on track.

"Yes. Brain Map City. And in Brain Map City there are three...city centers. You know, how if you look at Saybrook on a map, all the roads lead to the Church, or the old Town Hall?"

"They do?"

"Dad." Mer opens her eyes and glares at him like he should know this; like it's something everyone knows.

"What, I didn't know that!" He protests. His daughter's eyes narrow at him suspiciously. He holds up three fingers in the Boy Scout salute. "Scout's honor."

"That's the Girl Scout salute," Mer points out dryly. Dean glances at his fingers and shrugs, then grins wickedly. He's done both. Mer blanches."Dad! Oh my God. Oh my _God._ I am trying to have a serious discussion here and you—brain bleach! I need brain bleach!"

"You shouldn't be peeking, baby girl," Dean says seriously, but he stops thinking about that girl scout.

"Peeking? A neon sign would have been less subtle than that." Dean looks at her over his mug and she scowls, then mutters, "Sorry."

"Apology accepted." He figures she's been punished enough as is.

"Thanks, can we go back to the _serious_ part of the conversation, or would you like to traumatize me a little bit more?"

"Whichever works best for you," Dean offers magnanimously. He hopes she goes for the mental trauma.

"No," Mer answers his unspoken desire. "As I was saying. All the old cities generally spiraled outwards from the town center—usually the church. So you are my Town Hall and Whit and Atta are my churches and everything in my head spirals out from the three of you. It's all tied to you, like an anchor. Except Atta...he disappears sometimes. And it's okay for a little while, but if he's gone too long everything starts to unravel. And I get the headaches, and. I think, every time it happens, he's less."

"Less," Dean repeats. He desperately wishes his hot chocolate was a whiskey.

"Like...the streets are rearranging themselves. You know?"

"Yeah," Dean says past the lump in his throat. "You're saying Sam's losing parishioners." He says it lightly, but it's not light at all. The silence stretches for a beat, then two.

"It's...his entire building is crumbling," Mer says. "And I don't know how to fix it." She looks at him like he might have the answers. Like he can give her the key to fixing Sam, their relationship, the whole goddamn world. Dean searches for something—anything—to say, but comes up blank. Sometimes, it sucks not being able to lie to his kid.

* * *

Sam hovers on the threshold of the store. This is the sixth psychic he's been to see in a week. Four of them kicked him out of their store the moment he set foot across the threshold. One had started his reading and had a heart attack moments in.

This is the last one, he swears.

"Sam." Sam spins around, reaching instinctively for the gun at his back. The psychic looks...normal. An Asian man of indeterminate age in a plain gray shirt and jeans, an easy smile on his face. None o the affected persona many psychics have cultivated. "Come on back."

Sam follows the man into the shop, past the area set up for civilians. The back room is comfortable; it feels like a den, lived in and safe. The psychic sits at a round table and gestures for Sam to sit across from him. Sam follows the unspoken command.

"Name's Jeffrey. I think you'll understand if I don't shake your hand." Sam and Jeffrey share a look of understanding. Jeffrey expression turns curious and probing, but Sam doesn't feel any of his energy actually touch him. "You understand I can't answer all of your questions. Your problems...they won't be easily solved."

"How much do you know?" Sam asks sharply. Jeffrey shrugs and picks up a deck of ordinary playing cards. He cuts them like a card shark, movements sure yet automatic.

"The gist, my man. You've got problems. You shoulder them like Atlas. You'll break or you'll bend, you may even shrug, but either way you won't be the same."

"That a prediction?" Sam challenges, and Jeffrey shakes his head, expression bleak.

"That's inevitable." He offers the deck to Sam, spread wide in his hands. Sam feels like he's poised on a precipice. The patterned top of the cards, deceptively simple, taunt him.

"Don't you want to know my question?" Sam asks. Jeffrey shrugs noncommittally and shakes the cards. Sam pulls out seven at random, laying them face down on the table in a crescent. He feels a sudden attack of nausea and swallows thickly, forcing it down.

"The first card is your past." Jeffrey flips the card to show the three of clubs. "A favorable relationship, one of love and second chances. This is at the crux of your query." That can only be Dean. And since Sam's question is how to save Dean...

Jeffrey reveals the second card, the ten of spades. "Your present is filled with worry. You're blinded by it, consumed. It colors everything you see. Perhaps what drove you to me?" Sam merely shrugs and gestures for Jeffrey to continue.

"Your future. The four of clubs. It pairs closely with the first card and warns of dishonesty or deceit—blind acceptance brings misfortune or failure." Sam forces himself to breathe. Goosebumps break out over his skin. He can feel sweat sliding down the back of his neck. Deceit and dishonesty surrounding Dean. Every protective instinct in Sam rises up.

"What do I do?" Sam asks hoarsely. Jeffrey flips over the next card.

"The five of hearts, your guide card. Indecisiveness. You can't make up your mind about something..." Jeffrey frowns and turns then next card without waiting for Sam. His frown deepens upon seeing the three of spades. "This card represents the external influences."

"Well?" Sam prompts. He can tell from the way Jeffrey hesitates that he's torn between telling Sam something positive, uplifting, and utterly made up...and the truth. Jeffrey glances at him and whatever he sees on Sam's face makes him hurry through his explanation.

"This card represents a third person causing tension. Someone breaking into your relationship. Paired with the last card, due in large part to your indecisiveness. You need to make up your mind because this card leads us to the sixth card, your hopes and fears. The nine of hearts is the wish card, what you most desire. Surrounded as it is by the other cards, you'll face many obstacles in getting what you want, but it isn't beyond your reach. Not yet."

Sam stares at the spread before him. Six cards, all warning him. Not his first warning, either. His visions have been warning him about Mer for a long time now, and maybe if he stops hovering in uncertainty he can save both Dean and Mer and their family. Regardless, he's done watching from the outside.

Sam knows what he has to do.

"The seventh card is the final outcome," Jeffrey says, his gaze on Sam. He reaches for the card but Sam stops him before he can turn it over.

"It doesn't matter." Sam stands, his chair toppling over backwards. "I know what I have to do. Thank you, Jeffrey."

Black, empty eyes follow Sam out of the room. As he disappears out the door, Jeffrey's easy-going facade morphs into a twisted grin. The demon wearing Jeffrey Shieh's skin flips over the last card: the ace of spades. The death card.

"Run along home, Samael. There is much for you to do."

* * *

Sam breathes easy for the first time in what feels like years. Might actually _be_ years. He dials Dean's cell and gets the voice mail.

"Hey Dean. It's...it's me. Look, I know things are crazy. Have been crazy for a while and I haven't been...I want to come home. I'm _coming_ home, because I think I figured it out and I miss you. So yeah. I'm in Page, Arizona. Random, I know, but there was someone I had to talk to here. But I'm three days away if I push it, so...yeah. I'll see you in three days. I...I love you."

* * *

Three figures slink out of the shadows and convene under the flickering neon light of a motel in the middle of nowhere, Arizona. The blinking light highlights their features in sharp contours. They face off like combatants preparing for battle.

"Agares. From Duke to errand boy, how the mighty have fallen," a woman with blonde hair sneers mockingly.

"Ruby," Agares taunts, still wearing the skin of Jeffrey Shieh. He runs a finger down Ruby's face. "How was demon rehab? There are those of us who think it didn't quite...take. Any chance of that? I had such fun hunting you down the first time."

"You can hunt me any time," Ruby says seductively. Agares leers and leans into her space, only to feel the tip of her knife pressed against his femoral artery, the blade lying across his balls. "Just know I hunt back."

"I have work to do." Nybbas' dry, monotone voice grates. Agares and Ruby silently agree to a ceasefire based upon a mutual dislike of Nybbas, manager of visions and dreams—Alistair's favorite PR demon.

"Aw, isn't poor Sammy-Wammy due one night off? He can't be getting enough beauty sleep with all those nightmares you keep throwing his way," Agares mocks. Nybbas merely stares at Agares with incurious eyes.

"Right, so if we're done dicking around, Alistair wants a report," Ruby snaps. Agares loses his teasing edge. Even Nybbas shows some sign of life at that.

"Jeffrey here gave Sam the reading of his life. It's amazing how flexible those cards really are." Agares grins gleefully. "Sammy-boy will be running home as fast as he can."

"Good." They all start as Alistair materializes in front of them, eyes a soulless white. Nybbas bows low. "I think it's time to pay a visit to Iowa."


	24. Book Two: Chapter 4

**Divergent Horizons, Chapter 4**

Dean wakes up to green eyes peering at him.

"That is really creepy," he says, his voice a sleep-rough rumble. He drags his hand over his morning stubble and wonders what time it is. (The answer is always too early.)

"You ever wonder if I'm going to find my mate and destroy the world?" Dean blinks at the ceiling; whatever the time is, it's way too early for Mer's deeply unphilosophical questions.

"_Children of the Damned_?" Dean asks, dragging some long-lost memory to the fore. He glances at the clock. He has three hours before he should even _think_ about being awake.

"_Village of the Damned_. Creepy bottle blondes? Before Harry Potter made it cool?"

"Draco Malfoy," Dean corrects automatically, too tired to watch his mouth.

"HA!" Dean swears and pulls a pillow over his head. It's poor defense against the seventeen-year-old bouncing gleefully on his bed. "You've so read every single _Harry Potter_ book, admit it! Admit it admit it admit it!" Dean grabs her ankle on the next bounce and yanks her feet from underneath her. She falls on the bed, giggling, and Dean wraps himself around her like he used to do when she was little and would curl into his chest. Though when she was little she never poked him in the head.

"Stop it!" he snaps, swatting at her hand. "Trying to sleep here."

"Admit it," Mer orders mulishly. Dean sighs; there's really nothing else he can do, Mer will needle him for days if need be to get what she wants.

"I liked Snape," Dean admits. "Now shut it."

"Snape or Alan Rickman?" Mer teases. Dean laughs and refuses to answer. They lapse into an easy silence. Dean drifts in and out, not letting himself fall asleep just yet. Mer only crawls into bed with him this early when she's having trouble sleeping. She'll talk on her own time, Dean's sleep schedule be damned.

"Uncle Sam's coming back," Mer says a few minutes later. There's a layer of complex, twisted emotion behind her words that Dean both hates and understands. No one can win in this standoff.

"Yeah," Dean agrees neutrally. These last couple of weeks have been nice. He's been spending most of his time with Mer and Whit (when she isn't disappearing which, come to think, she's been doing a lot). It's been simple. Easy. He hasn't been pulled in two different directions, hasn't had to mediate between Sam and Mer. He realizes now, first with the hunt and now at home, that the tension between Sam and Mer has been slowly quartering him day by agonizing day. That he's pulled taut between them with no recourse but to break apart because he _can not_ choose one over the other. He needs them both.

Dean pulls his daughter close and sends up a fervent wish to whomever might listen to jaded, brother-fucking hunters that his family comes through this rough patch more or less intact.

* * *

Mer's dreams that night are frenetic and unformed. She keeps waking up, chilled and breathing hard, minutes after she manages to fall asleep. Once she wakes up reaching for something, tears in her eyes. She tries to remember her dreams but they fade away before she can catch them. She gives up around four in the morning and decides to meditate.

Mer takes a deep breath and turns her concentration inwards. She frowns at the chaos in her own mind; it's no wonder she can't sleep. She's too agitated to deal with it so she heads straight for the section of her mind that's Whit's. Whit exudes a sleepy, soothing feeling underscored by contentment. Mer sees it as a deep blue nebula, almost black in places, that parts for her in invitation. She can walk through the gentle mist to its center. Damien, who tends to manifest as a vibrant purple-pink, is at the core of Whit's contentment, buttressed up against the whole Winchester clan.

Whit isn't her only anchor; Dada and Atta are there too. Her city centers. Everything spirals out from the three of them. Dada tends to go from red to yellow to green depending on his mood—Mer laughs and wonders what her father would think if she compared him to a traffic light, even if the colors don't mean that. The thing she likes best about her father is he's rarely ever muddled or mixed, rarely emotionally confused. He's solid and dependable, for the most part. Lately though, he's been muted, which makes her sad because she's part of that and she doesn't know how to fix it.

Mer attributes a lot of her headaches to her parents: when one of her pillars is out of joint so is she. Atta, when she can sense him, is like that all the time. He used to be an inspiring, balanced combination of gold-brown-green, a tall tower reaching high into the sky, his colors complementing Dada's beautifully. Now, he's more and more often a tarnished, sickly gold, though there are times he vacillates between a red so aggressive it burns, tinged with the deepest indigo, and a blinding white. Mer's never met anyone who's white before, because it represents a blankness, a malleability. Some people have streaks of it—a lot of the more advanced students in Atta's classes are like that because they're learning, open to new ideas and suggestions. Allowing themselves to be taught, molded and shaped by their professors and the knowledge. It's an environmental response. But it's never been as intense or complete as she's seen in Atta, and Mer doesn't know what that means. Neither did Grandma Mo. There are other colors lurking underneath, Mer can sense them, but she can't get past the superficial. Maybe if Atta let her in...

Mer shakes off those thoughts—never going to happen—and borrows some of Whit's calm. Mer follows her mother's influence outward, into the thoughts and memories she ties to Whit, arranging them in a way that makes sense and stills the disorder in her head. She drifts in her own mind, tidying up and pushing a few things that have slipped out of place in line. The chaos slowly starts to recede and she can breathe easy again. The frenetic swirl of thoughts becomes orderly. She could probably sleep now if she tries, though if she leaves now it will only be a temporary patch.

She's tried to explain this to all of her parents at one time or another, but none of them understand this mental housekeeping she does. Not even Atta, whose powers are closest to hers. Apparently, none of them need to do it the way she does, either. Whit had spouted off some crazytalk about Mer maybe being able to control her hormones and involuntary actions or whatnot, but Dada had put the kibosh on that particular experiment pretty quick.

Mer lets herself float on the twisting eddies of her consciousness. She sometimes gets flashes of things she's forgotten—memories from when she was younger, bursts of insight, impressions from her surroundings. Her travels take her to Dada's glade, calm in sleep. He's having a good dream. Mer leans against him and for a moment she understands the whole of the world. The feeling recedes and she continues on. There are times when she thinks she's tapped into something large and unfathomable, perhaps greater than her understanding will ever be. But these rare encounters don't bother her.

She's drifting, enjoying the calm, when something dark and violent surges up, pushing at her external shields, and Mer jolts. Whatever it is disappears as quickly as it came, but it leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She checks her general surroundings for danger but there's nothing.

Her sleep is quiet after that, but she wakes feeling unsettled.

* * *

The last day of school is a joke. No one actually does anything except wait for the federally mandated number of school days to run out. Case in point: Mer spent the last class listening to Bonnie Erickson see just how graphic she could get with her innuendo-laden stories before Mrs. Sparks caught on. Mer's favorite had been the one about the "dice player" who was "vigorously shaking the dice" and had "opened his mouth wide to blow them."

"Mer! Mer! We're skipping and going to Doc Cotter's, come with!" Viv bounces down the hall, excited to be doing something dangerous and against the rules. Mer grins but shakes her head.

"Nah, promised Finn I'd stick with him. He's grounded for the first two weeks of break so, you know, this is actually the most freedom he's gonna have."

"Uh huh," Viv says skeptically. "I'm sure that's exactly why."

"What's that mean?" Mer asks, suddenly feeling defensive.

Viv waves her hand dismissively and mutters something along the lines of "Worst psychic ever."

"Oh, in that case, I'm not going to tell you Chelsea's about to leave you," Mer says archly.

"Shit! I'll see you later! Kisses!" Viv takes off for the side entrance to the school. Mer rolls her eyes and heads to the courtyard to track down her best friend.

There's practically no one here. Mostly a smattering of jocks whose coaches are trying to teach them a lesson, people who'd rather be at school than anywhere else, a few seniors already getting nostalgic, and a handful of nerds who are planning some kind of experiment for the summer months.

Finn's not in their usual corner or chatting up the dredges of the cheerleading squad. Mer frowns, wondering if Finn stood her up. It's not really his style, but she's at a loss until she spots him leaning against the wall with the vending machines, almost hidden in the shadows.

"Hey, whatcha doing over here?" Mer asks, slouching beside him. Finn shrugs and continues shredding the blade of grass that seems to have his complete attention. Mer shoulders into him lightly. "You okay?" Finn's lips tighten and a furrow appears on his brow. He still won't look at her. Mer stares at him, knowing Finn can feel it, and waits for him to crack.

"I...don't freak out."

"What—" Mer freezes as she catches sight of Finn's face. There's an ugly, livid bruise underneath Finn's eye and high on his cheekbone. Mer reaches out to touch but jerks her hand away when Finn flinches. _"Finn."_

"It's nothing," he says tightly.

"Finn, it's not nothing. What happened?" Finn shakes his head and refuses to answer. "Finn."

"Leave it alone, Mer," he orders. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away. Mer follows him in dogged determination.

"Finn, you can't ignore this, it's not okay. Did you get in a fight? I'm not going to leave you alone, you're my—" Mer doesn't even realize she's opened herself to Finn until she gets the flash, a one-two punch of memory that's dark and wrong and terrifying. Finn quickly pushes it away but Mer's already seen. She feels her entire world crashing down around her.

"Mer. Mer. MER!" Mer looks up at him through her tears, but all she can see is John raging about Finn's drinking and his fist coming down, the flash of _wrong_ she'd felt last night and God if she'd _realized_— "It's okay."

"It is not okay!" Mer yells, pushing Finn away. She's known Finn's dad her whole life. She's stayed over at their house, he's taken her to school... The image of John hitting Finn brings a new flood of tears to her. She feels nauseated and light headed, the world spinning around her.

"Mer!" Finn grabs her by the arms and shakes her. "It was an accident, okay? He didn't mean it."

"That...that was not an accident, Finn," Mer says hotly. Finn stares over her shoulder, jaw set and eyes hard. "Finn, you know—"

"Leave it alone," he snarls, backing away. "I don't need your help."

Mer watches him walk away from her. If there are words that can make this situation better, she can't find them.

* * *

Sam's fingers drum tirelessly against the steering wheel. The miles fly by, the scenery changing into Iowa's familiar landscape. The sun paints the horizon in a brilliant hue of colors. He's almost home. Home. It brings a silly smile to Sam's face, the kind he hasn't been able to summon for far too long. Sam has a plan, he's no longer undecided. He's going to tell Dean...everything. About the visions, about the anger...about Mer. He's going to _talk_ to Dean and they're going to figure out what to do _together,_ even if he has to sit on Dean and endure chick-flick comments for the rest of his life.

Sam's feeling better than he has in ages, for once certain of his path, when the vision hits. His car runs off the road and into the guardrail, caught in a horror he can't stop reliving.

* * *

Finn's phone rings to voice mail for the fifth time. Mer sighs and leans her head against the window, staring out at her backyard. She has half a mind to drive to Finn's house and _make_ him talk to her, but John might be there and that could be bad. Dada's at the garage, Whit's at work thinking baby thoughts, Atta's getting closer by the minute. Her best friend won't talk to her. Christ, it's all so fucked up right now. The beep sounds and she starts talking before she can change her mind.

"Hey." Mer swallows and stares at nothing. "Finn. I...shit. Look, I'm sorry. I can't help knowing things sometimes, especially when it's you because I—I mean, if it were Viv or Chelsea I'd know too, but they're...yeah, look. I trust you. If you say it's nothing then I, I'll take that at face value and let it go. Shit happens. But I'm your best friend, Finn. I've told you, and if you're in trouble or you're hurt or anything is going on, _anything_, you can tell me. So please. Call me. I just—I'll talk to you later." Mer hangs up and throws her phone on the table. This whole thing is fucked beyond belief.

The sun is setting in an unusually vivid riot of colors, but she can't bring herself to appreciate them. She should be celebrating the end of school. Instead, she's sitting here trying to figure out how to help her best friend. She closes her eyes against the tears that want to come. Crying really isn't her thing. Maybe...maybe if she pings Finn she can get a feel for what she should do? Or at least know if he's just busy or intentionally avoiding her call.

She can't breathe. Terror forms a steel band around her chest, constricting with every exhale. An overpowering feeling of wrongness chokes her, takes over her mind in an oily swirling mass. Pain, soul-deep, terror, confusion, anger, hate overpowers her and she loses herself in it.

It's Finn, underneath the fear. Mer can feel him struggling but he's fading fast. The world spins around her and it takes an interminable time for her to orient herself, to break free of the unexpected torrent.

_Oh God, Finn._ Mer fights against the vertigo, trying to get her eyes to _focus_. Finn. Trouble. Fear. _Finn_. She gets a flash of John, mouth curled into an angry sneer, fist raised above his head before she manages to pull away to the safety of her own mind. She's slumped on the floor and her eyes don't want to focus.

"No no no no no no no," she chants, feeling around for her cell. Her fingers won't quite cooperate. She finds Finn's speed dial automatically. His phone goes straight to voice mail again. "FUCK!" Another wave of fear crawls over her. She needs to get to Finn before it's too late.

Mer's keys almost hit her in the head and every door in the house flies open at once. She's in the car and halfway to Finn's house when it registers that she's started the car, much less driven it. Her knuckles are a bloodless white where she grips the wheel, fingernails biting into the leather. She sees movement from the corner of her eye and jumps; the passenger window cracks.

Mer deliberately sucks in deep, even breaths and forces herself to relax, one muscle at a time. She can still feel Finn at the back of her mind, scared and desperate. The shrill sound of her phone makes her jump again and the passenger window explodes outward.

"Dad?" she answers shakily.

"Hey baby girl! I know you're celebrating, but Sam'll be home soon and—

"Finn's in trouble," Mer gasps and drops her shields. She hears her Dad stumble and swear and now his fear for her is bright in the back of her mind. She pulls up in front of Finn's house. All the lights are off. She just stares, nothing really making any sense. Someone's yelling at her.

"Mer! **Mer!** What the fuck is going on?" Mer has never in her life been so happy to hear her father's voice.

"Dad, it's Finn, he's in trouble, something's wrong, I have to help him, he's—"

"MARY!" The sharpness of Dean's voice cuts through her hysteria. "Where are you?"

"John, he's...Finn had this bruise and I had a vision and I know I'm not supposed to look but it was _right there_ and he was so mad and I couldn't let him just hurt like that—"

"Mer."

"—and I'm here, but there aren't any lights on, but Finn's scared, he's so scared—"

"MARY!"

"I have to help him." Mer gets out of the car; Dean can hear the loud warning ding that says she's left the keys in the ignition.

"Mary Winchester, you will not go in that house!" Dean orders, reaching out for her, opening himself wide as a last-ditch effort to calm her down and keep her from doing something stupid. Mary's fear slams into him and leaves him breathless. It's not all hers; he's getting some of Finn's fear distilled through Mer. He knows with chilling certainty that Mer's not going to listen to him.

"I have to," Mer whispers. Hands shaking, she pulls the emergency gun from under the seat and her blessed knife from the glove compartment.

"Don't you _dare_ go to that house alone!" Dean yells into the phone. He forgets how to breathe when he hears the familiar sound of the action sliding back on a Glock, a bullet settling into place. He swings the car into a sharp left, engine revving as he heads for Finn's. "I'm on my way, do not go in there!" Dean's grip tightens on the phone as his daughter makes a sharp sound of pain.

"Oh God, Finn, _Finn_. Dad, he's—you gotta come. FINN!" Mer drops her phone and Dean can hear her footsteps fading fast.

"GODDAMN IT, MARY!" Dean throws the phone in the passenger seat and the Impala kicks it up a notch. "Come on baby, come on, we gotta go save Mer-bear." Dean keeps himself grounded by talking to his car. He almost loses control when Mer abruptly disappears. Something is blocking him, hiding her. He grabs his phone and dials Sam, but goes straight to voice mail. "Fuck, Sammy, where are you?"

* * *

A fresh wave of pain sends Mer crashing to her knees. She retches on the well-kept lawn, her mind spinning as Finn disappears under a tidal wave of malevolence, the likes of which Mer had never felt before. It takes a minute for her to pull away, to block herself off from him again.

She climbs unsteadily to her feet, her training taking over. Gun out, knife at ready but not in the way, approach cautiously and be aware of your surroundings. She enters through the laundry room, straining to hear anything. The house is silent. Mer casts her mind out and tries to pinpoint any life. Elkin, Finn's cat, is hiding under the table. John is...Mer frowns and her heart starts racing. Hurt. John's hurt, bad, but that doesn't make sense, can't be right. She clears the kitchen and heads for the main hall.

John is sprawled on the floor bleeding from a deep head wound, but otherwise stable. There's a green-yellow bruise on one cheek bone and signs of chafing on his wrists. He's not the one who was attacking Finn, there's no hint of that kind of violence around him. She leans closer and probes deeper; there's a lingering taint on his skin, something unwholesome and dark, but it's an external influence.

A crash and a thump comes from the front of the house. Mer spins and trains her gun on the front doors, hovering protectively over John. She strains to hear if anyone's coming towards her position.

Silence.

She expands her senses and searches for Finn but the whole house comes up dead. She can't even feel John, not three feet away. Alarm niggles at the back of her mind but her worry for Finn drives her forward. She's about to head upstairs when she catches the echo of something from the den, right off the front door. She holds her breath and waits to see if it happens again but there's only psychic silence.

Carefully, she edges down the hall. Warm, golden light shines from beneath the door to the den. This is a trap. It has to be. But she can't leave it alone; Finn is still in the house somewhere, John is defenseless, and there's got to be a third person in the mix, whoever Finn is so scared of.

"Maaaaaarrrry," a voice sing-songs. It sends a chill down her spine. "Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your best friend die?"

_Fuck_. Forgetting everything that's been drilled into her since birth, she rushes into the room. Finn punches her hard enough to knock her off her feet.

White, colorless eyes stare down at her unconscious form.

"I think stories of your prowess have been greatly exaggerated," the demon possessing Finn says. The sound of squealing tires has his lips curling into a bright smile. "Daddy's here. And when Sammy makes three the fun can really begin."

* * *

_Sam's caught in a nightmare he can't escape. He's running through a dark house, rays of sickly light sneaking through boarded-up windows. Sam knows this house, he's been here countless times before, dropping Mer off or picking her up or having dinner with John and Finn. He knows every room in this house, but every door only opens to one: the room where Dean dies._

_He opens what should be the master bedroom and he sees the material of Mer's jeans turn dark with blood. In the guest room Dean breathes his last breath. Finn's room is a close up of the knife, blood dripping off the blade. The bathroom is Mer's sardonic little smile and her lips curling around Sam's name._

_"NO!" Sam screams. "NO!" The animal darkness surges in him. He needs to go, needs to run, needs to protect. He knows he's run out of time, his epiphanies came to late._

_Another presence coalesces beside him, his shadow._

"It's happening,"_he tells himself._ "It's happening NOW."

Sam wakes up with a shout. The passenger side is destroyed but his car still runs. That's the only thing that matters. He has to get to Dean.

He has do whatever it takes to save him.

* * *

Finn's house is dark and quiet, a combination Dean hates. It _never_ bodes well. The front doors don't creak when Dean pushes them open. He keeps his gun pointed at the ground; he'd hate to accidentally shoot Mer's best friend.

Dean pauses when he catches sight of John curled on the floor. The man's breathing but there's a small pool of blood under his head. Dean's just about to check on him when he hears crying coming from his right. It's soft, muffled, as if the crier doesn't want anyone to hear. It's coming from the family room.

"Finn?" Dean calls, keeping his voice low. It's definitely not Mer crying, Dean would know that sound anywhere. Dean reaches out but still can't feel her, which is scaring him. A lot. "Mer? Finn?" He sidles in to the room but it's empty save for the long shadows thrown by the setting sun and a single dull yellow light in one corner. The hairs on Dean's neck stand on end. Something makes him look up. Mer's pinned to the ceiling. Dean's mind goes blank with horror.

"Dean Winchester. Finally." An invisible force slams into him. Dean bounces off a wall and a shower of books follows him to the floor. He automatically brings his gun up towards the source of the voice, but the same forces knocks it from his hand.

_Oh fuck,_ Dean thinks, getting a first look at his assailant. Finn's eyes are milky white and there's the faint stench of sulfur in the air. The demon smirks and looks at his bare wrist.

"Well. I think we've got a little bit of time on our hands. How about we get better acquainted? My name is Alistair."

"I'm going to send your demonic ass back to Hell," Dean growls through his pain. His shoulder isn't quite dislocated, but it's close. Hurts like a bitch. And his daughter is pinned to the fucking ceiling. As if reading his thoughts Alistair looks up.

"Ah, yes. Mary. She's very much your child, isn't she, Dean? Willful, disobedient. Can always be counted on to do the wrong thing in the name of right."

"Let her go!"

"Why, sure, Dean. All you had to do was ask!" Mer's body falls limply to the ground with a sickening thud.

"NO!" Dean struggles to get up but the demon's power presses heavy on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Alistair watches him with a sick sort of hunger and Dean realizes the bastard is getting off on this. Dean glares ineffectually as the demon runs his fingers through Mer's hair.

"Nothing broken," Alistair tells him. "Pity." The demon pulls back and punches Mer in the ribs. Dean hears them crack and screams in defiance.

"You son of a bitch!" Alistair gleefully presses the heel of his hand into Mer's side. She startles into consciousness. Her cry of pain rips through Dean. Mer rolls away from the source of her pain and scrambles backwards, taking in the demon wearing her best friend's body. Alistair grabs her ankle and jerks her back towards him, landing another blow against her ribs, same place. Mer collapses on the ground, gasping for air and trying not to throw up.

"MARY!" Dean yells in panic.

"None of that, Miss Winchester," the demon hisses. "You'll spoil the surprise, and you have no idea how long I've been planning this. It helps that your family is entirely predictable." Alistair approaches Dean and runs his fingers lightly over Dean's face. Dean flinches back and snarls. The demon lights up with malicious intent and Dean steels himself for a blow.

"Why can't I feel you?" Mer's voice is ragged and strained. Alistair tilts his head slightly towards Mer, fist still poised to strike. "I should have felt you." Alistair relaxes but Dean knows better than to think he's safe.

"Ah." Alistair indulgently pulls a pendant out from underneath his shirt. "You can do anything with magic if you're willing to pay the price. And I couldn't have you messing up my timetable, could I?"

"What timetable?" Mer challenges, desperate to keep the demon's attention away from her father. Dean's going to give her a talk about who should be distracting _evil demons from Hell_ in these situations.

"You think I'm going to waxing poetic about my master plan because I have an irresistible urge to feed my ego?" Alistair asks. He lets out a long suffering sigh. "Movies have quite devalued a good expository information dump, haven't they?"

"Don't let that stop you," Mer offers brightly. "I promise to appreciate you in the morning." The demon seems almost amused by Mer's bravado. Dean's going to kill her.

"Alright, since you insist: I'm going to slit your precious father's throat and it's going to bring about the end of the world." Mer's knife flies into Alistair's hand. In one fluid movement he draws the blade across Dean's throat, expertly angling the cut so it will take several agonizing minutes for Dean to die.

"NO!" Mer screams. Her fear fuels her enough to break the demon's paralyzing control. She's up on her feet in an instant, ignoring the the pull on her ribs. Mer tackles Alistair off her father and wrests the knife from him. They struggles briefly before Alistair plants his hand in Mer's ribs and throws her across the room. Mer rolls and crashes into the wall, dazed.

She struggles to sit up, using the wall as support. There's something hard trapped between her bak and the wall; it's her gun. Knife in one hand and gun in the other, she faces the demon and tries to brace herself for the very real probability that she'll have to shoot Finn.

"Well would you look at that," Alistair says, sounding deeply satisfied. "Perfection. Thanks for all your help, Mer-bear. I'll be seeing you around." Mer watches, wide-eyed, as the steps back into the shadows and disappears. She's missing something vital here, but doesn't have time to figure out what. Her father is bleeding to death.

"Dad. No no no, Dad, come on." She falls to her knees beside him and doesn't know where to start. Blood leaks from between his fingers where they're pressed against his throat. Her left hand, still holding the knife, rests lightly on his chest. There's a lot of blood on the floor. Too much. Some of it soaks through the knees of her jeans, warm and sticky. His heartbeat is barely a flutter and his eyes are glazing over. He clutches weakly at her arm. "Dad!"

An explosion shakes the house and Mer hunches protectively over her father. Without thinking she points the gun towards the door, ready to kill whatever came through the door, even if it's Finn. It takes a moment to recognize the tall, hulking figure. When she does, she smiles in relief. "Atta." He'll be able to make this all okay.

But when he steps forward, his eyes are black.


	25. Book Two: Chapter 5

**Divergent Horizons, Chapter 5**

Sam pushes his car to the limit getting to Saybrook. He doesn't remember the trip, just vague flashes piercing the fog surrounding him. A cop tries to pull him over at some point, but he leaves it behind. He thinks he may have turned every traffic light green and shattered all of those facing the opposite direction.

He's reaching for Dean, but there's some sort of psychic interference between them; he only gets bursts of feeling like a staticy telephone call. Sam grits his teeth. It's Mer keeping them apart, separating him from Dean. The power is tinged with feminine energy. Every hole he tries to punch through is blocked and Sam can swear he feels amusement from her every time.

Every taste he gets of Dean is tinged with angry desperation. And then he goes completely off grid and Sam _lurches._ The world around him hitches and folds and then straightens out at the end of Finn's street.

Sam doesn't question this, just speeds down the street and stops in front of Finn's house, wheels squealing. It seems like the house is lit up from within, every window spilling light into the night. Sam moves on automatic; he knows this scene. He's dreamed this for the last thirteen years.

The front doors explode in, shattering into kindling with barely a thought. Sam doesn't hesitate, steps over the splintered wood and takes his first right. He bursts into the den where he sees his worst nightmare made flesh.

It's exactly like he dreamed it.

Mer points the gun at him, almost an afterthought, not even looking at him as she watches Dean fight for life. Dean, oh god, Dean's throat has been cut and there's blood everywhere. Mer turns to face him and her lips curl into an infuriatingly smug smile.

"Atta." The name enrages him, breathes air on the coals of an anger he's been fighting for too long now. Sam reaches down deep and summons all the power he can manage and then digs deeper. When he's holding so much it burns he steps forward.

He throws everything he has at her.

Mer slams back against the wall and screams. The hated knife that's haunted his every nightmare, red with Dean's blood, skitters over the floor. Sam destroys it with a thought, watches it crumple into nonexistence. Mer blinks at him, eyes unfocused and blood dripping down her face.

Sam ignores her and turns to Dean. His heartbeat has slowed and his breathing is uneven. He's hovering on the threshold of life and death and Sam _will not let that happen._ Sam could heal him if he had enough power.

"Atta—" Mer gasps but he's not interested in any more of her lies. He shoves a psychic gag over her mouth and turns his attention inwards.

There's a part of himself he's been running from. A primal, dark drive that he's been scared of for a long time. No longer. He pushes deeper, spirals downwards. He rips the barriers and fences he's put up over the years away and he knows—he _knows_—that he'll be strong enough to defeat anything when he's through. The power reaches up for him even as he reaches down for it, just one flimsy barrier keeping him away.

The dam breaks and Sam is consumed.

The little curl of demonic darkness that Azazel had buried deep in Sam, that had survived by feeding on Sam's petty frustrations and formed into a sea of pulsing anger, explodes outwards. It spreads like an infection, warping and twisting and taking over. With it comes a rush of tainted power, seductive and overwhelming.

Sam _vibrates_ with power. He can see it sparking off of him, feels it humming through his veins. He could do anything. Anything at all. And nothing on this earth would be able to stop him.

Sam reaches out for his brother. Dean isn't breathing. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, empty and lifeless. He looks dead, but Sam can see a small spark flickering in Dean's chest, fragile and fading, but there. He knows he can save it.

Sam places his hand on Dean's chest and sinks his power into the body he's spent years learning. He knows these nerve endings—what makes them flinch or sing with pleasure, where they're sensitive and where past traumas have deadened them. He wraps his will around everything that is Dean's physical presence in this world and makes the body breath, makes his lungs expand and contract. He pushes Dean's blood through his veins, orders his cells to replicate and _live_. He brings Dean back to life on a cellular level and moves outward. The torn skin of Dean's throat knits back together. Sam erases the wear of age, puts Dean together better than he was. Sam keeps pumping power through him; he has so much to spare. All the glass in the house shatters but Sam's senses are filled only with Dean.

Dean arches beneath him. He's alive, _wonderfully_ alive, green eyes wide and his red lips open. Sam keeps pushing. He wants...he wants to give Dean a part of him. If he does that, there's nothing in this world that could take him away from Sam.

Sam leans down and presses his nose to Dean's neck, inhales deeply. He stores away the scent; he'll never forget it, and he'll always recognize Dean.

"S-sssss..." Dean can't make his throat work, but Sam understands. He hears the plea in Dean's voice; he wants more of what Sam's offering.

Dean sucks in a lungful of air and tries again, "Ssssssst—top. Staaah!" Sam hears Dean's cry of pain as an outpouring of exquisite pleasure.

"Never again," Sam promises. Dean's soul burns Sam's eyes, a riot of incandescent colors. Sam reaches out and touches it. It hurts him in the best ways. "Never."

Sam runs his fingers over a gold thread in Dean's soul, and Dean arches like a bow, eyes squeezed shut. So beautiful. So alluring, even newly recovered from the brink of death. Sam can't see his own soul, but he imagines it sings in counterpart to Dean's, complimentary in every way. He couldn't be farther from the truth.

* * *

Mer's chest burns with every breath and her head throbs; she can taste blood in her mouth and swallows thickly. She pushes up on her knees and fights down the urge to vomit; the room around her swims drunkenly. She can't remember—something important and—there's blood on her jeans. Her hands. What—

She looks up and gasps. She's never seen a possessed person before, but Atta _has_ to be. She sees him like double vision, human flesh with a seething mass of darkness underneath it. Even at his angriest Atta's never looked...like that. It's wrong on a visceral, human level.

A tendril of darkness extends from Atta and reaches out for her father. It touches him and subsumes the light, colors withering and fading wherever it goes. She has to stop it.

Sam's so immersed in Dean he doesn't sense the attack until it's too late. The statue connects solidly with his temple and knocks him out cold. Mer stares at the deep gash on his head, seeping blood. Something in her just...stops processing. This is not happening, this can't be happening. This can't—

"MER."

"Dad." She grips his arms and stares at him. He's alive. There's blood on his neck and soaked into his shirt, some in his hair, but he's alive and breathing and not bleeding. They need to leave. Now. "Dad. We have to go, we have to—" Mer tugs on him weakly, every little movement burning painfully, but he won't move. The room tilts dangerously and Mer realizes dimly there's something very, very wrong with her.

"Not without Sammy," Dean says, swaying on his feet. They can barely keep each other upright, and Dean staggers when Mer falls into him.

No, that's wrong. Mer closes her eyes against the throbbing pain settling in her head. The image of eyes that glow with a menacing, angry green hue swims across her vision. They can't take him; if they take Atta, bad things will happen. They have to go alone, they have to run far, far away.

"Dad," Mer pleads. She can barely form a sentence. There's something loose in her head. She pulls her father around to face her. He looks wild and unkempt and completely frayed. "Dad. It's not Atta. _It's not him._ We have to go. He's too strong."

"I can exorcise—"

"It's not a demon! It's something else! Stronger, spreading, Dad, _please_." Dean looks from his daughter to his Sam. He's exactly where he never wanted to be, forced to choose between the two of them. They're his to protect, and he's failed them both. Sam's possessed by some super demon and Mer's hair is dark with blood, she can barely breathe, and there are tears carving a path down her dirty cheeks. "We can't fight him if he wakes up."

"I'm coming back for him," Dean says, agony in every word. A dull ache spreads through him. Jesus, he's going to leave Sam here. Mer nods, choking on her tears, tugging him towards the door. "I'm coming back." He grabs her arm and hauls ass out of the house.

John and Finn are nowhere to be seen. In Dean's experience that means they're probably dead, but there's nothing he can do for them right now.

* * *

Mer's not doing well. She starts stumbling, leaning more and more on her father for support, unable to coordinate her various limbs. The world fades in and out of focus on a whim.

"Mer? Mary!" Dean leans her up against the Impala and checks her eyes. Her pupils are blown and reactions sluggish. "Jesus, Mer, not now. I need you to stay with me, baby girl. Come on."

"M-migraine," Mer slurs, trying to focus on him. It's a gross oversimplification of what's currently going on in her head but it's the best she can do at the moment.

"I know. I know," Dean soothes. He lays her carefully on the back seat and pulls a rumpled, long-forgotten jacket over her. Her skin is clammy and she's pale; it's possible she's going into shock.

Dean gets the Impala started and peels away from the cursed house. He needs...a plan. A course of action. He needs Mer safe so he can go get Sam. Dean pulls out his cell phone and starts dialing.

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answers.

"Where are you?" Dean asks Whit tersely.

"Home. What—"

"Get the emergency bags. Meet me at the Ashton safe house." He hears Whit's startled breath but she doesn't ask questions. They've been prepared for this eventuality for years; they all know what to do. Dean ends the call and tries to get Mer to talk to him.

"You and Whit are going to the safe house, Mer-bear. I know Sam knows them, so whatever's got him knows them to, but he doesn't know which one so you should be okay. You hear me? Mer? Come on, give me something, baby girl. Let me know you're awake back there."

"'s Atta in parts," Mer mumbles; Dean can barely hear her. "Shrapnel trynna be a whole."

"What was that? Mer?" He hits a pothole and Mer screams in pain. Dean speeds up.

The safe house looks like an old, run-down barn from the outside. On the inside it's heavily warded and stocked with emergency credit cards, canisters of gas, medical gear and hunting equipment. Whit's already there when Dean pulls up, one of her hospital-improved first aid kits with her. She gasps at the sight of Mer, glassy-eyed and obviously in pain.

"Mer! Jesus, Dean, what happened?" Whit assesses her with efficient competence. She's practiced her skills on the Winchesters more times than she can count over the years, but never on Mer. It makes her hands shake as she gently checks her pupils and reactions. "Dean, I think she's in shock."

"I was afraid of that," Dean says grimly. "Let's get her inside." Dean picks his daughter up and follows Whit into the safe house. Together they wrap her ribs; several ugly bruises are already starting to show. When they're done Whit bundles her in all the blankets she can find and stuffs it full of chemical warming bags.

"I've got to go find Sam," Dean announces once they've tucked Mer away. He swats Whit's hands away and uses a towel to wipe himself down.

"Where is Sam?" Whit asks, watching Dean arm himself with enough firepower to take on a small army.

"Sam's possessed," Dean says flatly. He ignores Whit's dismayed gasp and the emotions that want to fight through the shields he's had up since he first felt Mer's overwhelming terror. "This place is protected against demons but not...not whatever has Sam. You don't tell anyone where you are, you hear me? Not even Damien."

"Yes, right. No outside communication." Dean grabs an anti-demon kit and moves towards the door. Whit stops him with a hand on his arm. "Whatever happens, you come back, Dean Winchester."

"I'm _going_ to save Sam." Dean's tone dares her to say anything to the contrary. Whit stares him down, lips pressed into a thin line.

"That little girl needs you too," Whit reminds him. Dean swallows and finally nods once, decisively. Whit's eyes water and she pulls him into a fierce hug. Dean stiffens for a moment before hugging her back just as strong. It's a testament to how shaken they both are that they let the moment go without comment.

"We'll see you soon," Whit orders. Dean walks to his car and doesn't look back.

* * *

Sam goes from unconscious to alert without anything in between. He touches his temple and the skin underneath his fingers knits together. He stands, testing and flexing each muscle...and liking what he feels. He raises his hand and studies it like he's never seen it before. He hasn't, not like this. He sees his hand, but he can look deeper than normal human senses. He can see the muscle and the bone; the rush of blood in his veins; the _power_ that flows through it.

He extends his senses outwards and he finds Dean easily. He calls to Sam and stands out like a beacon against a dreary, worthless world. He's coming to Sam, which makes Sam's job a lot easier. Bless his predictable, overprotective older brother. Satisfied Dean is alright, Sam searches for Mer. He growls, frustrated, as he comes up with nothing. He should be able to find her taint as easily as he found Dean's brilliance. He switches over to Whit, knowing she's the first person Dean would call, but Whit's gone too. Fucking tattoos. There has to be a way.

Frustrated, Sam casts about for something, anything, the smallest clue. His mind soars over Saybrook, covering miles of ground in mere seconds. Even with his powers that's inefficient and time consuming. Frustrated, Sam forces himself to calm down. Thinks logically. If he were Dean, what would he do? Where would he go?

A safe house. He'd go to one the safe houses, even if Sam knows where they are. Sam starts checking them one by one. There are five fully functional safe points within a reasonable distance. He jumps from one to the other, searching them, tearing down wards that are laughably flimsy, but comes up empty every time. They have to be in one of them, he knows Dean and he'd believe the safe houses were their best option, particularly as he's out driving around Iowa looking for Sam. He starts over, more slowly this time. He's on the third house when something glimmers on the edge of his awareness.

Mer Bear. It resonates with an echo of Mer, faint but very real, at the house on Ashton Drive. _Perfect_. He hooks a mental tracker into the bear, a thread that will lead him straight to it wherever it might go. Spreading out, he finds something that dully feels of Whit—her car. Within the car is a cell phone that he marks as well. You can never be too careful. Sam smiles to himself. Soon. They'll be free soon.

But for now, he has to make sure Dean stays out of the way. Wouldn't do to have him hurt himself because he doesn't understand yet.

* * *

Whit obsessively checks Mer's bandages even though she knows they're fine. She hates feeling helpless. Mer whimpers and the skin around her eyes and mouth tighten. Whit would love to give her a shot of painkiller but they can risk Mer being insensate if something attacks them.

"It's okay," Whit murmurs, running her hand lightly over the curve of Mer's skull. Mer's eyes flutter open but they don't focus on any one thing. "It's going to be okay."

"The clocks of the long now aren't ticking," Mer says. Whit can't say why, but the words send a chill down her spine.

"Mer, my lovely, you aren't making much sense." Whit tries to keep her tone light. "Try to get some sleep."

"Last sleep forever," Mer agrees, and her eyes slide shut. Whit frowns because that sounds unnecessarily ominous. Mer whimpers and grabs Whit's shoulder. Her grip is so weak. "He knows."

"I don't...you're not making any sense, Mary." Mer opens her eyes and Whit gets lost in them.

Whit was standing in a silent field. The landscape around her was...infected. Veins of dark, diseased soil wound through healthy ground. Where the taint touched, vibrant plants of unimaginable beauty withered and desiccated.

"How do you stop a flood that's already here?" Whit started and spun around. Mer stood regally behind her, hair golden blonde and falling gracefully to her shoulders. She wore a green dress and looked...older. Where she stepped the infection faded into nothing. She brushed past Whit, looking at something in the distance. Whit turned and followed her gaze—

They were standing under the tallest tower Whit had ever seen. It rose into the sky without end. Beyond it, she could see two other towers rising in the distance, one blue and the other gold. Mer had once said that's how she saw Whit and Dean. Could...three towers, three parents... Whit turned back to the dark tower.

It had large cracks running up the side and was the same oily black as the diseased ground. A loud groan came from above. A strong hand reached out and pulled Whit back as a huge stone fell from the sky. It hit like a drop of water, splattering into pieces when it struck the ground. With horror, Whit realized the tower was the source of the wrongness in this landscape, the dark stain spreading even as she watched.

"Pollution is a serious problem in the twenty-first century." Mer was decked out in military fatigues, her hair in a tight bun. There was a scar on her forehead where she was hurt in the real world.

"Is this...is this Sam?" Whit asked, voice catching on the words. Mer tilted her head to the side and gazed up, up, up.

"Not anymore." When she looked back at Whit her scar was longer, curving down around her eye. And black. With every heartbeat the taint spread, the darkness spidering outwards through her veins.

"Samael," Mer breathed. The word made the world around them shudder. The air became so cold Whit's breath was thick in the air; ice coated her hair and frost covered the ground. Mer seemed untouched.

"Why are we here, Mer? What's going on?" Whit asked, drawing in on herself for warmth.

"He knows," Mer answered, and touched two fingers to Whit's forehead. Images crashed through Whit's mind, tumbling one over the other. She saw Sam's eyes turn black, then yellow, then white. Mer Bear with a fishing hook through its head, the line leading away. Whit's car with a hook through it too, and her cell, and Mer's cell, all caught by the same fisherman. Mer plucked the line and they zoomed along it till they reached the very end where—Sam. It was Sam, looking at Whit with knowing, vicious yellow eyes.

Whit comes back to the real world with a scream. Sam knows exactly where they are.

* * *

Dean heads back towards Finn's house because it's the last place he saw Sam and the only lead he has. If he's lucky, Sam will still be out cold on the floor. Dean's never been particularly lucky, though.

"Hey, Dean." Dean swears and swerves off the road. The Impala dies with a stuttering cough.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean demands. He looks over at his brother, somehow materialized in the passenger seat, and freezes. Sam's eyes are yellow.

"Don't worry, it's not permanent." Sam pets the dashboard soothingly, almost apologetically. He shoots Dean a sardonic little smile and Dean can almost convince himself this is his Sam. "I just need you out of the way for a while. So I can make everything right." A chill runs down Dean's spine.

"What...what does that mean?" Sam smiles at him pityingly. Dean forces himself not to flinch back from the sight of those eyes. Sam leans over and crowds him back against the door. Dean closes his eyes.

Sam still smells like Sam, warm and earthy. Sam's lips ghost against Dean's, and that's familiar too. His hand running over Dean's chest, the way he touches...all of it is _Sam_. But when Dean reaches out, just a tentative psychic brush, it's emphatically _not Sam_ that he feels.

"You're not going to like the answer," Sam says. "Don't think about it."

"Sam," Dean says desperately, filled with foreboding. He gets a flash of violence, of Mer dead on the ground, and his heart races.

"It's for your own good." The air warps around Sam and he disappears.

"SAM!" Dean yells at nothing. "SAM!" Swearing, Dean scrambles out of the car. He pops the hood of the Impala and starts trying to fix whatever Sam broke.

* * *

Dean screams obscenities at the air and kicks a tire. Whatever Sam's done to his car isn't something Dean can fix. He'd better not have done what he did to the circuitry of Dean's phone, which looks like someone poured acid on its insides.

Dean slumps against the side of the car. He looks up to the sky, a thousand points of light twinkling merrily away.

"If you're up there listening, now would be a REALLY FUCKING GOOD TIME for some divine intervention!" Dean starts as his car suddenly roars to life. "Holy shit." Dean's not one for looking a gift horse in the mouth while his brother is insane and his daughter is in mortal peril, but he does file the incident away for later review.

He spins the car around and heads back to the safe house as fast as the Impala can go.

* * *

"I'm sorry," Whit mutters under her breath, coaxing a few more miles per hour out of her car. "So sorry, Mer-bear." This has been her chant for the last ten minutes, speeding away from the safe house in a blind panic. She drives like Hell itself is on her ass—which it very well might be. She's going too fast when a figure materializes in front of the car and she swerves instinctively to avoid it.

She wakes to the smell of burning plastic.

Whit stumbles out of the car. There's blood running down her face and she thinks she may have a mild concussion.

"Hello, Whitney." Sam's still standing in the middle of the road, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes glow in the dark. Fear tries to take over, but Whit forces it away—she has to keep her wits about her.

"'Hello, Whitney?' THAT'S all you have to say to me?" Whit glares at Sam and he has the audacity to smile bashfully at her and scuff the ground with the toe of his shoe.

"Sorry about the car. That was an accident."

"The..._the car?_" Sam remains silent and gives Whit a challenging look. "I'm not sure I buy that."

"I don't need you to," Sam says dismissively. "Give me Mer."

"Why are you doing this?" Whit asks plaintively.

"Mer killed Dean. I brought him back. I won't let her do it again." Whit shakes her head in denial.

"Mer would _never_—"

"I'm sorry you'll have to see this, but I promise to make it quick." He moves for the car but Whit steps in front of him.

"Sam, you have to see how crazy this is," she reasons desperately. "You're...you're _infected_ and it's warping your thinking—NO!" Sam shakes her off like an annoying bug. Whit remains silent as Sam approaches the car. He looks into the backseat and pauses. He reaches in and pulls out Mer Bear.

"I don't want to hurt you. Dean wouldn't want that," Sam says conversationally.

"And Dean wants you to hurt his daughter?" Whit asks incredulously. Sam glares but Whit thinks she can detect a hint of the real Sam behind the angry facade. "Dean will _never forgive you_ if you kill Mer. I don't care what you are to each other. You can't come back from that, Sammy."

"She's dangerous," Sam counters, reaching up to touch Whit's cheek. He sounds almost...sad. Apologetic. "And _wrong_. Mer's like a rabid dog. I can't leave her alive; she'll destroy him. And I won't have that." A tear escapes Whit's rigid control.

"You're already doing a pretty good job of that yourself, Sam." Whit feels a sense of calm come over her, looking at Sam's unnatural eyes. She doesn't know what's happened to him, but this is not the Sam Winchester she knows and loves. Where ever that Sam is hiding, she hopes he'll forgive her for what she's about to do. "I'm not going to let you hurt my little girl."

"I know," Sam says, and he sounds almost sad. Not about killing Mer, rather about how it's going to affect Dean and, to a lesser extent, herself.

Whitney's been a nurse long enough to know that second chances don't come often. When she lost her family she built a new one, strange as it might be, and she swore to keep them as safe as she could. Which is why long ago, when she was still dealing with the idea that evil creatures existed and her protector had _powers_, she did research. To understand what was out there, what could threaten the people she loved. To know how she might protect them. Her research led her to a man named Marcus whose powers had driven him to seclusion, who had acquiesced to her demands because he knew her determination and her heart.

She had always known she was the weak link in the Winchester's armor. Even when Mer was a kid she instinctively protected herself and those around her. Dean and Sam lived and breathed the supernatural. So Whit had taken it upon herself to ensure that she could never be used against her family. Though she'd never thought she'd be protecting them from Sam.

_I love you, Mer-bear,_ she thinks with all her might. _Never forget that._ She thinks she feels some kind of acknowledgment from very far away, but Whit isn't paying attention. She's going to buy Mer and Dean the time they need to get away. Whit closes her eyes and dives into herself, searching for the little bundle Marcus had left in her mind.

"Dean's going to need you," Sam is saying, "but you'll both understand when it's over." Whit finds what she's looking for and pulls it open. The mental grenade explodes out, sending Sam hurling deep inside his own mind.

Whitney Steton's last act on Earth is tinged with bleak satisfaction.


	26. Book Two: Chapter 6

**Divergent Horizons, Chapter 6**

They look like incandescent beacons, blinding brightness against a barren, savaged mindscape. What was once a well-ordered, healthy mind is now chaos and disorder. The ground beneath their feet rolls with aftershocks, each ripple shaking the structure of this mind even more. Pieces break loose, shift and get lost.

Two towers stand as sentinels on the horizon, one a gash against the sky, suppurating darkness; the other is inflamed with emotional torment. They stand before a crater where a third tower used to stand, strong and indefatigable. The results of its destruction can be seen in everything around them. There are deep cracks in the ground leading away from it, the entire mindscape turning unstable without its supports in place.

They've been watching this family, this girl, for so long. Seeing them like this, the evidence of their once tight-knit family falling apart at the seams, hurts in ways he's never felt in his years of existence. They could have stopped this. They could have saved Whitney Steton.

"They would have stopped us, Castiel." He doesn't react, just stares down at the hole Whitney has left in Mary Winchester's life, in her mind. "What we're doing now is dangerous enough."

"Is there enough to save?" he asks. The darkness recedes from where they stand, unable to withstand the purity of their Grace, but theirs is a small patch amongst the encroaching taint.

"There has to be," Anael—his mentor, superior, guide—answers, "or we are lost." She kneels and touches the ground beneath her, a physical manifestation of Mary Winchester's ravaged mind, but real nonetheless. She feels a brief flair of recognition that dissipates into the ether. The truth of that memory is lost somewhere. They are running out of time.

They hear a sharp crack and their attention is drawn to the dark tower in the distance. Sam's anchor in Mer's mind, his gateway to her soul, an advantage which he is using to poison the girl he sees as his greatest threat to Dean. It spews thick black smoke into the air, reminiscent of an incorporeal demon, a dense fog that begins turning Mer's mind dark and lethal.

"Draw your sword, Castiel, and lead the way," Anael orders. Castiel hesitates, unaccustomed to leading an archangel in battle.

"Anael—"

"I cannot lead in this," Anael says curtly. "You are the one Mary Winchester must learn to trust. It begins here. Go, Castiel. She is running out of time, and I must guide Dean to safety." With a short nod, Castiel spreads his wings and hurtles towards the tower that represent Sam and everything he is to Mary. The land he passes over turns healthy, healed by his grace. It fights against the decay, but between Sam's taint and Whit's death, the healthy patches are being slowly eaten away.

Castiel lands beside the corrupted tower and shivers. The oily feeling of demonic taint crawls over him, settles between the feathers of his wings and tries to corrupt him. In all his years of existence he's never felt anything so profane.

Sam's tower is crumbling from the foundation up. Darkness oozes from the join of the stones onto the ground and into Mer's mind. Sam is a cancer they need to excise before Mer is lost, and with her their hope. They need both Dean and Mer healthy and whole to combat the horrors Sam will unleash on the world.

A flicker captures Castiel's attention.

A young girl, no more than six, uses a brightly colored plastic bucket to scoop tainted soil and throw it back towards the tower. She's carving out a moat around the structure, the small furrow she's already dug out filling with black ichor. Castiel sheaths his sword and cautiously approaches the child.

"Mary?" Castiel says softly. He kneels beside her, but the girl doesn't stop her motions. Her lips are pressed together in concentration. "Mary Winchester?" Castiel reaches out and touches her. She screams and flails with the bucket, striking him in the head. Castiel reels, pain exploding along his entire body, another sensation he is unaccustomed to. The girl frowns at him, then dismisses him completely and goes back to her digging.

"That is inefficient," Castiel says. He's ignored. Castiel glares. He's trying to help and being summarily dismissed. "There are better ways to accomplish what you are attempting to do. I would be happy to instruct you on the most efficient way to partition and remove Sam from your mind."

The glare Mary turns on him is, in Castiel's opinion, completely unwarranted. The ground beneath him trembles with anger. Castiel feels he's missing something significant here, something that Anael would understand, but she has left this task to him and he must prove himself worthy. Castiel spreads his arms wide. "I only wish to help," he says.

The girl returns to her digging. A lime green bucket appears beside her. Castiel hesitates for a moment and then kneels beside her and digs.

000

Bobby wakes up when every phone in his house starts ringing all at once. He regards them with suspicion. Either something's gotten through his defenses or shit's going down.

He picks up the line no one's supposed to know about.

"Any other time and I'd tease you for being predictable," Missouri says in greeting, but she can't disguise the tension in her voice.

"You wanna tell me why every phone I own is ringing off the hook?" Bobby prods. He starts the coffee pot and, after a moment, the spare one two.

"It's bad, Bobby. It's real bad. It's—"

"The Winchesters," Bobby says with a sigh, because it's always the Winchesters. Only they could come up with some kind of clusterfuck that has the whole hunting world calling him.

"Bobby...I think the world's ending."

Bobby swears and then starts digging around for his third coffee pot. He'll be going into this apocalypse well caffeinated, thank you very much.

000

Whit's death feels like a heart attack. Dean's extremities go numb, his chest tightens and his breathing stutters. He manages to slam on the breaks before he runs off the road, but it's a near thing. When the physical symptoms pass, the empty psychic echo that Whit's filled for seventeen years is just as painful, but with no means to soothe the ache away.

Oh God.

Dean sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. Whit's dead. The world looks like it's underwater, and Dean realizes he's crying. He adds hyperventilating to his list of symptoms when he remembers Whit was with Mer. Shit. _Shit_.

Dean curses himself a fool for leaving them. He should have stayed. It's his job to protect his family, and he's let them all down. Every single one. Dean slams his palm into the wheel in anger.

He makes it back to the safe house faster than he should. There's no car out front, but it's still standing.

The shack is empty. All the lights are off and there's no one on the couch. This doesn't make any sense, because if—Dean takes a deep breath. If Sam killed Whit and Mer was with Whit then he would have killed Mer too. Mer isn't dead. Which means she wasn't with Whit. Whit...stashed her somewhere.

Everything seems to snap into place in Dean's head and he rushes to the small closet in the back.

The blankets look like they've been tossed down and forgotten on the floor. Dean's hands are shaking as he reaches for them, thanking every deity that comes to mind for Whitney Steton. And Jesus Whit _hurts_. Dean realizes how thoroughly unprepared for Whit's death he is. Whit...Whit was always going to be there. She was his constant, _Mer_'s constant when Dean and Sam eventually got themselves killed.

Dean forgets to breathe as he pulls the blanket down and reveals Mer's hair. She's okay, safe, Whit made sure of that. His relief is short lived.

There's blood trickling out of Mer's ears and nose. She's completely non-responsive, her head lolling back when Dean picks her up. Dean tries to open himself to her, but he's too raw from Whit's death and all he gets is psychic static. He pries one eye open but gets no response.

Dean's operating on instinct and all he knows is he's got to get her away from here. Sam, wherever he is, knows where they are. Knows all their safe houses, knows _him_. Killed Whit. Dean feels every moment of indecision weighing on him.

He could go to Bobby's.

The thought springs from deep in Dean's subconscious, unmotivated. It's strange enough to make Dean pause and take note, his paranoia making him second guess the impulse to go. This could be Sam setting a trap. Getting Dean to hand over Mer on a silver platter. Dean shoves the emotion that wells up to one side; he has to be clinical about this. Detached. He has to do what Dad taught him, examine the evidence, weigh his options and make the best choice.

_Go to Bobby's_, his subconscious insists again. _Help is there._

The impulse feels right. It doesn't feel like the taint Dean had sensed on Sam. Still, Dean is hesitant, not in part because he doesn't want to put Bobby in danger.

_Bobby has protections. He'll be in no danger,_ the little voice in his head answers. _You have nowhere else to go._

And that, Dean realizes, is the true crux of the matter.

He carefully settles Mer in the backseat of the Impala, blankets tucked tight around her. He methodically clears the safe house of all the weapons and provisions and packs three emergency bags into the trunk. He thinks as little as possible as he pulls out into the night and heads for the last home he has.

000

Castiel's hands are raw by the time their moat circumscribes the tower. All of his attempts to talk to Mary have been met with silence. So he digs at her side, aware of time passing both here in her mind and outside in the real world.

Castiel steps aside and allows Mer to dig the last few bucketfuls that connect the two ends of the moat. Immediately black liquid oozes to fill the furrow. They both watch as the darkness fills and then spills over the moat's boarders. Mer tilts her head back and screams.

The world around him shifts and a teenager, dressed in an over-sized shirt and ripped jeans, is building a wall brick by brick to keep the tower contained. Her movements are sharp and jagged, filled with desperate anger. Castiel steps closer and Mary turns on him.

"Who the fuck are you?" She holds the trowel like a knife, prepared to defend herself. This is her mind, so Mary could very well cause serious harm to Castiel should she wish.

"I am Castiel." Mary stares at him expectantly. Castiel stares right back.

"And?" Mer prompts sarcastically. Castiel doesn't know what to say to that. Mer sneers. "What are you doing in my head?"

"He's with me." Mary throws the trowel at Anael before the first syllable is fully uttered. Anael snatches the tool out of the air faster than the human eye can track. Mer cocks her head to one side and studies the newest intruder.

"I know you," Mer says slowly, tasting the words. An unfriendly smile crosses her face. "You're...Hannah." Mer says the name with gleeful maliciousness. Anael snarls softly and Castiel wonders at the response. He's never seen her react to anything without perfect poise and control. That this human girl can get such a reaction unsettles him.

"You remember," Anael says, regaining her composure.

"You never did tell me why you hate Hannah so much," Mer says conversationally. Castiel notices that behind her the wall is building itself. He could tell her that her efforts will be as ineffectual as the moat, but he feels that will go over about as well as his last attempt to help.

"My name is Anael. You may call me _Anna_ if you wish," Anael growls, her eyes glowing. Where most creatures would cower under an archangel's wrath, Mary Winchester smirks laconically.

Castiel cannot believe the audacity of this human child. He draws himself up and thunders, "You are in the presence of Anael, one of the seven archangels of the Host of Heaven. You will show respect!"

"I don't remember your friend here being a part of your merry band of assholes, but he'd fit riiiight in," Mary drawls, filled with teenage insolence.

"He is my protégé," Anael says with a fond look for Castiel.

"Is that angel for winged dick-in-training? Cause he's got the dick part down." Castiel steps forward, his sword in hand; He will not be insulted by this broken human whose mind is falling apart around them, who they have come to save at great risk to themselves. He's suddenly looking at a much older, harder version of the teenager. There are scars on her arms, another running across her face. She watches him with a predator's eyes and he realizes this is the protector, the fighter. The hunter her parents hoped she'd never have to be.

"We are here to help you," Anael says sharply, putting a restraining hand on Castiel, "not to antagonize."

"I'm doing fine on my own," Mary retorts and turns back to her wall. Even as it builds itself the darkness is already crawling over it, through it.

"You've built your mind around people," Anael says gently. "You tied your well-being to them. One is dead. The other is infected. Your mind will not survive."

"Dad's going to save Atta," Mary insists, faith in her father complete. Her form wavers between the Hunter and the Child.

"Even if he does," Anael presses, "what will you do when they eventually die?" The world around them shakes and rolls. Castiel stumbles, but Anael stands firm. The Teenager is back, glaring at them with fierce defiance.

"You must learn to exist on your own. Can you not feel the infection in your own mind?" Mer turns to look towards the tower that represents Dean, the last intact anchor of her mind.

"I don't want to lose him," she whispers, once again the young child trying to use a bucket to hold back the sea.

"Then you will die," Anael says bluntly, "and lose him regardless." Mer starts shaking. Her form cycles through different facets of her personality, all of them torn. Anael watches, eyes sharp with an inherent understanding of humanity Castiel lacks. With the air of a predator closing on its prey, Anael plays her last card. "If you die, you could take him with you."

When Mary turns around she's once again the Hunter. Sentimentality has no place here. Behind them the dark tower rumbled and shakes, then starts to collapse in on itself. The shock waves from its unsteady descent force Anael and Castiel to their knees.

When it's over it's as if the tower was never there, save for a perfectly circular scar in the dark, soiled ground. Castiel feels his still unfamiliar face contort on its own as shock settles through him; Mary Winchester should not have been able to do that on her own.

"Fix me," she orders. One of her eyes is black and the taint of Sam's influence highlights the veins beneath her skin. "Now." Together, Castiel and Anael work at the arduous, painstaking task of healing Mary's mind and freeing her from her last remaining anchor.

000

A shadow peels away from the darkness and glides towards the bodies crumpled on the side of the highway. Others follow, dressed in the shells of people from all walks of life. They form a circle around the car and the bodies, eyes red and black and yellow.

A demon in a young girl's body slinks up, her eyes milky white. She grins down at the broken body of the woman, eyes glazed in death. She trails her hand through the woman's hair, the gently innocent gesture contradicting the nature of the creature inhabiting the child. She starts humming _Mary Had a Little Lamb_, and her lips twist up in a feral smile.

A ripple winds amongst the demons, an acknowledgment of power. The humming stops.

"She's still all warm and life-like," the little girl giggles, tracing runes and sigils over dark skin. Even though they're only hinted at, dark power lingers around them. "We could leave such a surprise."

"A waste of power," a deep voice contradicts the girlish tones. The assembled lower demons part like water for the newest arrival.

"You ruin all my fun, Alistair," the child pouts, crossing her arms stubbornly and looking up, up, up.

"Inferi are child's play, Lilith," he responds, irritated with her airs. He hates it topside. The air's too clear and human bodies are so frail. Playing with souls is much more satisfying. "I thought we were here to start the Apocalypse." Lilith's fickle attentions shift to Sam, nearly dead from the human's unexpected actions. She coils a lock of hair around her finger and hums, a sub-human sound pitched too low for the normal human ear to hear. It resonates in Alistair's teeth, travels up through his bones. The smell of sulfur invades the air. Their army of demons stir restlessly. Hell is close to the surface, the walls of reality rubbed thin.

"We will have to rebuild him," Lilith says, letting her hand trail across Sam's face. She pokes him in the forehead and his head falls to one side. There's blood coming out of his ears. "He's damaged."

"Nothing the Ritual won't fix," Alistair says dismissively.

"There's one thing the Ritual won't fix. Dean is still alive, Alistair," Lilith pouts. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. "You said you'd kill him for me. You _promised_. His spawn's still around too."

"The one mistake in an otherwise perfect game," Alistair sighs dramatically. "But look on the bright side: Sam is far stronger that we gave him credit for. Do you know what that means?" Lilith smiles and claps with childish glee; Alistair can practically taste the chaos and destruction she has planned.

"Let's welcome little Samael to the fold," Lilith croons. A dozen hands heft Sam's limp body up and carry him into the darkness.


	27. Book Two: Chapter 7 and Epilogue

**Divergent Horizons, Chapter 7**

Bobby greets him like Dean shows up with an unconscious teenager every day by slinging a hex bag over his head. Dean is so fucking grateful for Bobby's stoicism that he could kiss the man—okay, maybe just a very firm hug. But it's nice to have a spot of normalcy even as his world is falling down around his ears.

Bobby holds the door open for Dean. Missouri and a woman Dean's never met ushers him upstairs, Mer nestled in his arms. Dean's vaguely aware of several phones ringing throughout the house, but his attention is still wrapped up in his child. She doesn't look quite as pale as before, but she never woke up for the whole trip and that scares him.

He places her in the middle of a circle made of ancient symbols, drawn in herbs and salt. There are hundreds of candles scattered around the room. He thinks Missouri says something reassuring, but Dean's too busy watching Mer's chest move steadily up and down in deep, even breaths.

"Dean!" Missouri raps him sharply on the head. He stares stupidly at her. "Pamela and I are going to try and see if we can reach Mer. You are going to sit here and freak out inside your own head and _not_ try to interfere, you hear?" Dean nods stupidly, not bothering to tell her his powers are shot to hell.

"Who's Pamela?" Dean blurts belatedly.

"Strong and silent works for you," the woman Dean hadn't recognized says from across the room. "You should consider keeping that up. Maintain the illusion." Oh. That must be Pamela. The woman snorts. "Must be." Her sardonic quips remind him of Whit and it feels like someone's plunged a knife into a preexisting wound and wiggled it around. Pamela looks at him with pity in her eyes and Dean scowls at her, turning his attention deliberately back to Mer.

She's going to be fine because she has to be. She doesn't get a choice in this. Dean needs her to be okay because he can't deal with both her _and_ Sam falling off the cliff.

Missouri and Pamela start chanting and Dean settles in to wait.

* * *

Castiel is exhausted. It's delicate work putting a human psyche back together. There are so many things that could go wrong, so many ways to put it together incorrectly. Since Mary excised the source it's all a matter of rooting out the taint one bit at a time.

"I'd rather not be a sociopath." There's also Mary's penchant for looking over his shoulder and, as Anael calls it, 'backseat driving.' She's doing better, though, and Castiel feels a measure of pride that Mer no longer shifts personas depending on her moods and emotions. She's becoming a truly unified personality under their care, knitting together as they erase the taint from Sam's influence and heal the wounds Whitney's death left behind. Anael is taking care of unraveling Mer's dependence on Dean, a task Castiel does not envy.

"No really, please tell me you're not trying to route my perceptions _entirely_ through the logic centers of my brain."

"I would invite you to take over, but I believe you lack the necessary power and ability."

"Not to mention the dickish attitude," Mary chirps pleasantly. She's a combination of her teenage self and someone caustically playful. She tells harsh truths with jokes and seems to delight in being crude. Castiel stifles his annoyance. "You know you ruffle your wings when you're irritated." She sounds entirely too gleeful and Castiel hears the soft susurrous of his wings, followed by Mary's deeply amused laughter. She mutters something that sounds like "angel tell" but it makes no sense so Castiel endeavors to ignore her.

He does split Mary's _perceptions_—an incredibly generic, broad, over generalized description of a very complex bundle of mental functions that grant Mary higher reasoning—through her emotional and ethical centers as well. (Even though he's thoroughly convinced Mary Winchester _will never actually use_ her higher reasoning skills if her current behavior is an indication of future behavior.) Her mind unfurls, and the sickening darkness recedes as Mer finds more of herself and is able to police her mind on her own.

"Hmmmmm," Mary hums, eyes closed. When she looks at him again, Castiel can tell his efforts have not been in vain. He can see green in her eye again and the spider web of taint is shrinking as well. She no longer cycles through facets of her personality. "You know, Angel Dude, there may be hope for you yet." Castiel detects a certain amount of fondness there and that worries him for reasons he can't quite pin down.

* * *

Missouri struggles to keep her eyes open as she draws her mind back to herself. She has to talk to Dean before she can succumb to the bone-deep exhaustion that's settled into her bones. Mer's hurt, bad. Far more than Missouri can heal. Fact is, Missouri doubts there are even a handful of people in this world that could fix what's been broken in Mer. Luckily, Mer's one of them, and she'll take care of herself in due time, but it's going to take just that—time. For the moment, she's buried so far in herself and set up such thick shields that it exhausted them both to even confirm she was there at all.

Missouri pauses when she hears it again: a strange resonance from Mer, like the fading echo of a ringing bell. She's never heard or felt anything like it before. Maybe Mer has help. The thought warms Missouri's heart and she smiles.

"You see it too then?" Pamela smiles tiredly at her from across the bed.

"See it? No. I hear it, though. It sounds like..."

"Silver," Pam finishes. Missouri smiles. Silver sounds about right. Pamela smoothes Mer's hair back and lets herself out of the room. Missouri rouses Dean, who spent the last few hours zoned out and staring unseeingly at Mer.

"She's going to be fine, Dean," Missouri says tiredly, putting a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder as he jumps. "Let Bobby sit with her a pace; we need to talk." Dean looks from her to Mer and back, clearly trying to decide whether or not he should leave. Missouri fixes him a look because that was not a request.

She fixes them tea—no coffee, Dean needs to sleep—and waits until Dean drinks one whole cup before she talks. He makes faces the whole time, but Missouri will not be moved in this.

"Mer's going to be fine," Missouri reiterates, because sometimes it takes a few times to get through to Dean.

"I can't feel her," Dean counters. "She's kept me out, but it's never felt like this before."

"She's not doing it." Dean shoots her a scornful look and Missouri wishes she had her spoon on her. Dean knows better than to be that literal. "Consciously," she corrects. "She's hurt bad right now and she's gone to ground. Pulled everything in to protect herself."

"She doesn't need protecting from me!" Dean explodes.

"Dean," Missouri says patiently. "She just lost two of her grounding points. She's got no defenses against _anyone_." Dean glares at her and Missouri gives it right back. He can only hold her gaze for a few minutes before he seems to crumble, folding in on himself.

"She's leaving me," Dean says, voice sounding small. "Whatever connects us together—I can feel her changing, Missouri. She's not going to need me anymore." Missouri sighs sadly and pats Dean on the head.

"Hon, that's called growing up."

* * *

Anael studies the smooth exterior of the watchtower—Mer's version of Dean Winchester. There's no break in the surface, nothing but shiny, reflective glass that swirls with colors. Occasionally a memory plays underneath the glass, like a clip from a television show. Mer as a giggling three-year-old; Mer in tears over something; Dean and Sam sharing a look over the dinner table, oblivious to everything else. Anael has spent the past eighteen years watching the Winchesters and she can see Dean's soul reflected in the eddies of this place.

The tower is impenetrable. There are no handholds on the outside, no turrets—just miles and miles of faultless glass.

"I need to get in," she says aloud. "You have to let me do this." Nothing happens. If Mary truly cannot let her father go then they are doomed. Anael leans her forehead against the tower. It's warm to the touch and vibrates with life. She reaches out with her Grace and brushes against the tower. A clear bell-tone sounds, the purest sound she's heard outside of the Host.

A thin hair-line crack appears. It spreads and forms the shape of a door. Anael sets her sword against it and levers outward. The door does not open. She tries again, putting the full weight of her form against it, using all the strength at her disposal. The door grudgingly yields a few inches, screeching against the ground in protest.

She forces the door enough to slip in and enters a paradise. There is a glade behind the Winchester's house, abutting a pond and overgrown with foliage, where the sunlight is always gentle. This is a recreation of that place, one of Mary's favorite havens where she spent many lazy summer days with Finn. The only difference is the tree that has taken root in the very center of the glade, strong and imposing. Thick roots, bigger than her vessel's torso, disappear into the ground. The tree feels ancient and immortal because Dean is the first thing Mer knew and he has never not been there.

Anael kneels at the base of the tree and reverently digs her hands and her Grace into the soil. She gently separates the ground from the roots, excising Dean from Mer. When she gets far enough down it becomes harder because there are roots also growing _up_, the parts of Mer that reach for Dean in times of stress and all the little things he's taught her without even knowing. They tangle in with Dean and make Anael's job more difficult for all that she's happy to see them. There are parts of Dean Winchester his daughter is blessed to have and know.

Anael spares a thought for the roots that had grown up to meet Sam and how much damage Mer may have done to herself by so carelessly ripping him from her mind. But what's done is done, and she doesn't have time to spare thinking about what might have been.

It's tedious work uprooting Dean. Anael is almost certain she's missed parts; others are so intricately interwoven with Mer she can't safely separate them. They'll either pull lose or they'll stay. But she's done what she can to mitigate the damage.

She sits back on her heels and studies her work.

"You're not going to lose him," Anael says softly. Mer materializes beside her, a child of five, green eyes staring upwards. She clutches a beaten, well-loved bear to her chest. "He'll be there when you wake up."

"Won't be the same," the little girl whispers.

"Nothing ever is." Anael starts when she feels a small hand grasp her own.

"Will it hurt?"

"I don't know," she says helplessly.

"Oh." Mer looks at the tree again. A stiff breeze begins blowing. It builds strength, quickly becoming a strong wind and then a gale. Anael's hair whips around her face but Mer remains untouched. "That's okay. Sometimes it's better not to know."

The tree sways dangerously and groans as it pulls free of the ground around it.

* * *

Mer really doesn't want to wake up, but there's this mosquito buzzing in her ear and it won't go away.

Her eyes slide open and the light hurts. Everything is fuzzy around the edges. Nausea rises in her and she gags. Hands turn her over and guide her head. She tastes something acidic and disgusting and her stomach heaves. It hurts, so bad. She's got nothing to throw up but her body's trying anyways. When the wracking pains subside those hands—familiar, she thinks distantly, thickly—tuck her back under the warm covers. Too warm, even though she's freezing cold.

"I'm here, baby girl," a voice says in her ear. "I'm here, and you'll be fine." She trusts that voice, reaches for that voice but it's not there.

"Go back to sleep." She floats down into blackness, confident that he'll be there to catch her.

* * *

Mer wakes up fully two days later. She gazes at the ceiling. She knows this ceiling. She knows this place. Mer tries to sit up but the world swims around her. Her head feels tender. The world is a much better place with her eyes closed.

"How do you feel?" Mer's eyes snap open and she focuses on the foot of her bed. Anael and Castiel are watching her with careful scrutiny. Mer instinctively reaches for her father but he's not there anymore. Neither is Atta or Whit. She's alone in her head for the first time she can ever remember.

She turns her face away, trying to keep the tears from falling and find her center. This is...this is like when Viv got her own room and no longer had to share with her sister, right? It's exciting and grown up to have your own space...privacy. No more irritating pings when she's out, she can skip school without anyone knowing... Except Whit's gone, Uncle Sam wants her dead, and Mer can't imagine her dad's in good shape.

A cold hand brushes against her forehead and Mer's burgeoning panic fades away. She can breathe easier and even her head feel a little better. When she feels in control she turns back to her guardian angels. Anael looks sympathetic, sitting on the edge of her bed. Castiel's still hovering at the foot board, looking at her like she's a particularly incomprehensible specimen of humanity.

"You know," Mer says, her voice hoarse, "you never did tell me why you hate Hannah so much."

"Hannah and I didn't get along," Anael says dryly. Mer blinks.

"Like..._the_ Hannah? Mother of Samuel?"

"Saul, actually," Anael corrects. "Some things got confused in the sixth century. She was a bitch."

"Anael!" Castiel exclaims in horror. Mer stifles a laugh at the look on his face, and Anael grins at her, the expression hidden from the other angel.

_He's new to this rebellion thing,_ Anael's voice says in Mer's mind. _Still learning._

"Rebellion?" Mer blurts, eyes wide. Anael's expression turns serious and Castiel goes even more stoic and blank.

"Mary, there are some things we need to tell you."

* * *

They all get the summons at the same time, an un-ignorable impulse to go find Mer _right now._ Dean bursts into her room, gun drawn, followed closely by Bobby and his favorite shotgun.

"That...was not the response I was going for," Mer says, eyes wide.

"You okay?" Dean asks, gun trained distrustfully on the windows as he comes alongside her bed. He trusts Bobby has his back.

"For a certain value of okay," Mer sighs. "Please put the guns away?" Bobby harrumphs and breaks his shotgun. Dean lowers his weapon but doesn't put it away yet. Something's off. He just doesn't know what.

"Good to see you up, Sea Monkey," Bobby says. Mer smiles at him.

"You too, Uncle Bobby." Mer suddenly turns and glares at...nothing. Dean's anxiety ratchets up a notch.

"Dad. You remember Hannah?" Mer asks. She sounds...annoyed.

"Hannah?" Dean tries to place the name amongst Mer's friends. He works his way backwards, but he can't place the name. There was a Hannah Abernathey in sixth grade, but she hadn't been Mer's friend. Not in elementary school, either. Before that was the period of...no. No way. "Hannah. Your...invisible friend, Hannah?" Mer opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and shrugs sheepishly.

"You may call me Anna," a woman says crossly, appearing out of thin air. Dean has his gun leveled on her before she's finished talking.

"That's not going to help," Mer says wearily. "This is Anael. She's an angel." Dean stares unflinchingly at the red-headed woman.

"Of the Lord," Anael adds. A man pops into existence beside her. "Castiel and I are here to help you stop the Apocalypse."

"Oh," Dean says. "Good to know we've got Heaven on our side." It's a weak attempt at a joke, but he's still stuck on _angel of the freaking Lord._

"You don't understand," Anael says gravely. "We're the only angels on your side."

* * *

They chose the warehouse for its space. The ground is covered in ancient symbols of power, painted with the blood of virgins, dark and foreboding. They pulse with power. A hundred demons stand at the outermost edge of the sanctified space.

Alistair carries Sam's limp body to the center of the circle and lays him down with uncharacteristic tenderness. With a knife, Alistair cuts off Sam's clothes, careful not to leave any marks. He takes the remnants with him as he retreats to the exterior of the circle. His part is done. This is Lilith's show now, and she's always been a fan of grand displays.

Lilith makes her entrance dressed in a Christening gown, a light pink bow in her hair. She plays hopscotch through the symbols, acutely aware of every eye watching her. Even the invisible ones. She hums and giggles as she paces the circle, spiraling in towards Sam. A few demons stir restlessly, wondering what's taking her so long. Alistair growls at them and they all cower. Idiots. If they can't see that Lilith's charging the circle and checking all the symbols then he's certainly not going to inform them.

Lilith reaches the last symbol and her humming abruptly stops. There's a sense of anticipation as she stands before Sam, one foot poised over the edge.

Lilith steps into the center circle and her eyes snap open, glowing a dull white. The ground around them trembles with power. Ley lines glimmer, crossing directly under Sam's unconscious body. The demons around the circle start to chant and funnel their power into the runes. When they're done this land will be charred and tainted; nothing will grow here for millennia.

"We will call him Samael," Lilith laughs, head tilted back and arms raised to the sky. She's still laughing as she slits her host's throat with her fingernails and the child's demon-tainted blood anoints Sam, their Chosen, their Harbinger. The ichor of the newly born seals him to their service. Lilith's power pulses into the symbols beneath her feet, winding up and into Sam. She screams as she gives her life to her Master's plan.

Lilith dies and Samael wakens with a gasp.

Muscles jerk under the onslaught of power, tense and unyielding. Hazel eyes look up at the sky, lost and scared, before they're eaten up by black. The black fades to red, then flickers through yellow, white, and a sickly green before settling into a very human hazel. The man at the center of the circle rises, muscles rippling. He takes his first breath.

"Hello, Samael," Alistair greets.

A twisted smile steals over Sam's face. He stands slowly, testing his body as if it's the first time he's really felt it. Alistair can feel the power humming beneath his skin. The demons he's assembled, the beginnings of an army, murmur amongst themselves. They've been waiting for him a long time, their Harbinger. The one who will awaken Lucifer and turn the Earth to ash.

Samael looks at him, eyes burning with darkness visible.

"I want Dean," he growls, and the world around him shudders.

* * *

**Epilogue**

"You must leave. Now." The warning comes three days after Dean feels something in his soul shudder and snap. When Mer came running into the room, eyes wide, the only thing Dean could do was open his arms and hang on as hard as he could. They'd told Bobby Sam was gone and he didn't press them for details.

Anael and Castiel watch them with impatient eyes. Bobby convinces Castiel to angel away almost all of his books for safekeeping.

"MER!" Dean takes the steps two and a time. "Mer we have to—" Mer's sitting amongst the contents of Whit's suitcase. Shirts and pants laid out around her. A clip sparkles in her hair, one Dean remembers giving Whit years and years ago. Pain wells up in him and his vision blurs.

"Anna." Dean clears his throat and starts over. "We have to go."

"I know," Mer says. She leaves most of the clothes spread on the bed, but she pulls on an old, threadbare sweatshirt Whit had loved. The sight chokes him up all over again. "I'm ready."

* * *

Dean's been vaguely aware of people joining them as they work their way through the States, trying to find a safe place to regroup and figure out what the hell they should do now. But all the new people, Bobby's network of contacts for the most part, haven't really registered with him. He's been too busy drinking himself into a stupor. The Apocalypse. The fucking Apocalypse, and the angels had allowed it to happen. Watched as Sam slowly went dark side without saying anything or stepping in to stop it. Let Whit _die_. Dean takes another drink.

"Dad." Dean glances at his daughter and pours himself another shot. He has no idea how to talk to his kid. She's harder these days, less prone to smile and joke. Whit would know what to do, how to get Mer to open up about what's going on with her.

Mer sits beside him in silence and stares over the desolate parking lot. She doesn't lean into him for comfort or ask him for reassurance. Dean wants to scream. Wants to yell at her, ask if she misses Sam, her Atta, or if she's decided that the formative years of her life mean nothing compared to the few years she and Sam were fighting. He _hates_ this new Mer for a second. The quiet in his mind is almost too much to bear. Mer's shields are no longer welcoming to him. He has to ask her to let him in. No more pings and check-ins. He's left without anything to distract himself from the holes Sam and Whit have left.

"I've been thinking," Mer says. Dean takes another shot. When he pours another, Mer snatches it from him and downs it like a pro. She grimaces and puts the shot glass on the ground. Dean's paternal instincts make a half-hearted attempt to protest. He drowns them with more whisky.

"I've been trying not to," Dean admits. The alcohol isn't working fast enough, isn't working at all. Mer reaches out and grabs his hand, keeping it from the bottle, her eyes suspiciously bright.

"About that flash. You know." Oh, Dean knows. Will never forget the moment he felt what was left of his Sam turn into complete, unrelenting evil. When Mer speaks it takes Dean a moment to place the tone; it's the way Dad used to talk about tracking down the YED. "They did this to him. That last thing, that wasn't _him_, you know? That was...I think there's a part of him still in there that they had to hide. Or kill. Or something. I think there's something of Atta left. And I think. I think if there's anything left to save, we're going to save it."

Dean feels his eyes sting. His first instinct is to deny it. They're Winchesters, good things don't happen to them. He's about to say it, the words on the tip of his tongue, but when he looks at Mer he sees beyond the fierce front she's put on. She's scared and grieving and out of her depth. She's a kid looking to her father for some sign of how to proceed. And they're Winchesters, goddamn it, they don't give up on their own.

"What the hell," Dean says hoarsely. "It's not like they've got angels on their side." Mer lets out a breath that's a sob and Dean hugs her tight. Because maybe he needs something to believe in too and if there's any part of Sam left who else would be able to find it? Dean feels the spark of hope and purpose take hold.

"We should take your new lease on life and go rally the troops," Mer says after she composes herself. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry and Dean feels a feather-light brush of solidarity.

"Yeah, let's get the War Council started," Dean agrees.

"Just as long as you don't start fights in the War Room," Mer teases, bumping their shoulders together. Dean manages a wan smile.

There are more Hunters gathered in Bobby's extra-large motel room than Dean has ever seen in one place, even in the Roadhouse. They all regard him with deep, serious expressions. These are lifers, the people who have a calling like Dean's dad did. They're the ones who will keep going until it kills them, and they fully expect that to be any day. Dean used to be one of them. Before Mer and Whit. Before Sam. Dean flinches but doesn't let the grief overwhelm him.

Bobby stands before them, grave and serious.

"I'm not going to waste words here. Y'all know that something Big's happening. You've seen signs and portents everywhere. Well, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Apocalypse. You're first string defense and special teams for Team Save the World."

* * *

A/N: Whew! There it is, the second book in its entirety. Don't hate me too much; I'm working on the third (and final) part as we speak!


	28. Book Three: Prologue

**Title:** This Thing of Darkness  
**Fandom: **Supernatural  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing:** Sam/Dean; several implied/unrequited relationships  
**Word Count:** 58,057  
**Verse:** Haven/Heartless World  
**Warnings:** gore and violence; codependency; dubcon-esque issues; language; darkness; torture; evil!Sam  
**Summary:** Sam doesn't end the world in a day; he takes his time. He wants Dean and is getting tired of waiting. And playing nice.

**Please head the warnings.**

* * *

**Prologue**

The world doesn't end in a day. Sam takes his time.

The government calls them terrorist attacks. It's easy to pretend at first, but as Sam and his demons get more creative it's harder and harder to hide the truth. People start leaving the major cities, moving into smaller communities where everyone knows your name and strangers are guilty until proven innocent.

The Old Ways start creeping back, meshing with new technologies to create new weapons, protections, and ways of utilizing magic. They meet shamans protecting the trucking routes and way stations; traders disseminating occult supplies; priestesses sanctifying radio towers and factories; psychics who can relay communications from around the world. Boundary Wardens reawakening and maintaining the old wards of town and cities, hedge witches who spark with power as people remember to _believe._Everyone wears protective amulets and gris-gris, and an unwarded house is a sure sign of trouble.

People no longer talk of the Things that Go Bump in the Night in hushed voices. You can buy silver bullets in the corner store.

The world is changing, preparing for the end.

Sam sets up shop in Philadelphia. The city of Brotherly Love.

Six months after they lose Sam, after seeing him surrounded by demons, receiving reports of increasingly depraved acts, searching for an answer or a cure but finding nothing, Dean shuts himself in an abandoned hotel room for three days, warded against angels and demons and prying psychic eyes alike. It would have been longer, except Mer breaks into the room on the seventh day. The room reeks of alcohol and stale air. The walls are covered with printouts and photocopies. Recent reports of supernatural attacks of various scales laid side-by-side with excerpts from the Journal and handwritten post its. It takes a few incidents to make out the pattern because Dean didn't always have the names and some of the details were lost to time. But it's there, with every body and wanton act of destruction.

Her father doesn't move from where he's slumped on the floor, braced against the bed, eyes bloodshot and face drawn, a week's worth of beard on his face. She feels tears prickling at her eyes and fights them because that's what she does.

"Oh my God," Mer breathes. Dean laughs, a dry, brittle sound that speaks to just how he feels about _God._She sits down on the bed, staring at the walls in mute horror. Numbly she slides down the edge of the bed beside him. Dean mutely hands her a bottle of whiskey.

"When..." She has no idea where to go with her question.

"Reno," her father says hoarsely, a printout crumpled in his hand. She pries it out of his hand, has to trade the bottle for it, and Mer reads about some guy who was found crucified in his apartment beside his tongue, flayed but still alive. He'd lived for _days_ longer than he should. _Police and doctors still baffled..._

"Guy called me a fag," Dean chokes out. He lets out a drunken, humorless laugh. "Years ago. Jesus, Sam's been leaving me _presents._" For every attack there's a corresponding story. And in every case, Dean experienced...unpleasantness at the hands of humanity's lesser members.

"There's a symbol-"

"Mine," Dean says, and drinks straight out of the bottle. "'s San-Sanskrit. Means mine." It's Sam's favorite ancient language, he used to spend hours drawing the symbols when he was little, enjoying the way they looped and moved. Later-later Dean would wake up, Sam's hands tracing words over his skin, the delicate Sanskrit letters flowing down his spine.

"He wants you back," Mer says, sounding lost.

That's not the message, but Dean will die before he tells her that. He's still got some sense in his head. Because it's not that Sam wants him back-it's that Sam never let him go in the first place. Dean can only run so long.

Mer pours them each a shot and keeps on through the second bottle, where they abandon pretense and each claim a bottle for themselves. Dean tells Mer this is a Winchester right of passage, drinking to the lost with your Dad. In the end, Bobby comes looking for them and Castiel and Anna have to step in to keep them both from dying of alcohol poisoning.

The next morning Dean lets Anna carve symbols into his ribs that make him invisible to all forms of supernatural tracking. He'll need every advantage he can get to save Sam.


	29. Book Three: Chapter 1

Dean sits beside the Grand Canyon. The sun is frozen in a perpetual state of setting, the sky painted in vivid pinks and indigos. It's like a postcard. It _is_ a postcard. Because this is a dream.

A lucid dream, which means that it's only a matter of time before-

"And what merits a visit to the monolith of our childhood?" Sam settles beside him, too far in Dean's personal space. Dean waits, tense, but this isn't one of those dreams where he's only along for the ride. Sam nudges Dean, his elbow too sharp, and Dean shifts away.

"Not today, Sam." They've been playing this game for-too long. Dean is exhausted. Can't even get a moment of peace in his own head.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks. He sounds concerned. His hand settles on the back of Dean's neck, large and warm, fingers massaging tense muscles. Dean's first instinct is to lean into the touch; he's given in before. Hates himself every single time but these are his dreams, none of it is real. Sam sighs, as if he knows what Dean's thinking.

"What are you going after tomorrow, Dean?" Sam asks, his breath fluttering against Dean's ear. Dean shudders, eyes sliding closed, and half-heartedly jerks away. Sam hums and runs his lips the length of Dean's neck, his fingers slipping underneath Dean's shirt. "Is it a Seal?" Sam's teeth tug lightly on Dean's ear, distracting him. "Which one?" Dean grits his teeth and turns his head away because Sam's just told him tomorrow is meaningless. Even if he saves a Seal another will break.

"Will you stop it?" Dean asks, his voice coming out hoarse and choked. Sam always asks. Dean always lies. Except once, Dean had told him. Told Sam their target in some vain hope that he'd come to Dean, for Dean. That he might want to be saved.

They'd arrived and found everything laid out for the ritual-gleaming blades, pentacle written in lamb's blood, the sacrifices lashed to tables at each of the Watchtowers. Alive. With bows on their heads. Sam hadn't _believed_ him, but he'd let a Seal go anyways. Just in case.

"If I tell you, will you stop it?"

"Say you'll stay with me," Sam whispers. "Say yes, and I'll do whatever you want."

From one moment to the next he's on the other side of the Canyon. Sam screams but his empty words sail away on the wind. Dean turns away and stares off in the distance.

It's bright and sunny when they pull up to the high school. The roads have been long abandoned and the school's windows are boarded. Unwelcoming.

Three teams—Dean's, Bobby's and Ellen's—have come together to try and save a school full of teenagers and a Seal. No time for recon, just a cryptic call from Castiel, coordinates and a timeframe. They've got maybe two hours to save everyone. Thing is they know better than to wander into a big fuck off school without knowing the lay of the land and only a sketchy idea of what ritual they're trying to stop.

Dean takes stock of who he's working with. Ellen's got Jo, Ichi and Ash with her. They lost their fifth a few weeks ago and it shows. There's a scar on the left side of Jo's face, purple and angry, still healing from that clusterfuck. Ichi, a stocky Japanese American kid with a mohawk and a quietly menacing demeanor, is better at close quarters combat and knife fights than with guns. He has fingerless gloves studded with ancient, blessed sliver blades at the knuckles that can kill demons. Dean wants them. Ash is hovering to one side making awkward conversation with Leslie, a doctor-cum-hedge witch who jumps from group to group and is currently travelling with Bobby's team.

Bobby only runs with seasoned hunters these days. Joe Mills, Creedy and Daniel Elkins—the man that first trained John Winchester—are all names he recognizes from Before. They never stick around long, too used to the loner lifestyle, but they'll run a few hunts and spread some gossip before they drift away, only to be replaced by some other lone wolf. Dean doesn't have to worry about them, they can all take care of themselves. And if they don't, well. They made their peace long before this Apocalypse.

Most of Dean's own team comes courtesy of Mer: Danny Chu and Trixton (no last name, thanks). Picked them up after a hunt in Scranton, the two of them green but scrappy, tagging along with a gypsy caravan. They had 'nice auras' and come time to leave were ensconced in the back of the Impala, Mer giving him a scarily bland look that just dared him to argue. Dean wouldn't have; he worries about her, cut off from everyone she knows. He never wanted this life for her but they didn't have much choice. He lets Danny and Trix hang around 'cause that the easiest way he can think of to avoid all the mistakes his father made. He doesn't think he's succeeding but at least he's trying. Her penchant for collecting strays is too reminiscent of Sammy to think hard about.

"Two groups," Bobby's saying as Dean brings his attention back. "One through the front, one through the back. There's so much EMF coming off the building the radios won't work but keep 'em on anyways. Ash and Leslie stay behind."

"Mills and Elkin'll roll with my team," Dean picks up. "Bobby, Creedy, with Ellen. We move fast, we get this done, and we get out." Everyone sets to arming themselves with their favorite weapons, acutely aware of the clock ticking down. Mer grabs a shotgun and her matching semiautomatics, returns to their little circle and sidles up to Jo.

"Hey Jo, switch teams with me?" she asks casually. No one pauses in what they're doing but she has everyone's undivided attention.

Jo glances at her mom, then Dean, who's glaring a hole in his gun, jaw tight. Bobby looks annoyed but he has more sense than to say anything. Last thing they need is a teenage showdown before this fight.

Jo glances at her Mom, who gives a slight shake of her head.

"Sure," Jo says, equally casual. Dean snaps the clip back into his Glock and primes the slide with far more aggression than necessary and Jo makes a mental note to talk to Mer about suitable times to stage displays of rebellion. Mer walks over to Bobby with a grimly satisfied look on her face.

Trix and Danny exchange a glance then play a quick game of Rock Paper Scissors. Trix loses and heads over to the other group. Ichi sees him coming and saunters towards Dean like that was the plan all along.

Ellen watches Dean stew and bild up to a head. He takes an angry step towards Bobby's group but she stops him.

"Not the time," she says softly.

"Yeah? Try telling that to _her,"_ Dean bites out.

"You can't keep her with you forever," Ellen says. She glances at Jo who's doing her best to look like she isn't hanging on every word. "I speak from experience. Let her have this one." Dean glares into the middle distance, jaw locked.

"It's not about that. She shouldn't be contradicting an order," Dean snaps. "She's throwing off our team dynamic, it's-"

"Boy, you are not your Daddy, do not pull that good little soldier shit with me," Ellen says, low and with a distinct thread of anger in her tone. "It never saved anyone." For a moment Ellen's pain is all Dean can feel; it passes, packed away per usual, but it helps clear away some of his own anger. "We're all used to each other; none of us are green. We've all fought together before, we will be fine, you let her have her little tantrum now or she'll pull it with a team you don't know."

"This one is going to be all demons," he tries to explain. "It's a Seal, she's-"

"Why do you think she chose it?" One day she's going to sit Dean down and explain a few things about the female teenager's mindset. After they all survive today. "You've got Bobby and Creedy on her, and I think Trix would walk through fire for that girl. None of them are you, but that's the point. So you either spend ten minutes arguing, order her and have a sullen, resentful soldier at your back or you _let it go."_

Dean's face goes blank and then he nods, once. Packs his irritation away, shifting to focused Hunter between one moment and the next. He secures his weapons and steps just inside Ellen's space, his expressions drawn.

"You can find her when this is over, and you let her know this does not. happen. again." Ellen swallows, refuses to let her nerves show in the face of this hard, unfamiliar person. He holds her gaze for a moment, probing, and then steps back. "Lets move out!"

-

Dean grits his teeth and dodges a knife thrown at his head. There's far more than demons guarding this place and way more than they expected to find. It almost feels like an ambush.

"'m out. Reload!"

Dean turns to cover Ellen as she drops to one knee and loads her shotgun with practiced efficiency. He nails two black-eyed demons in quick succession. He winces as a shot goes off right by his ear, taking down a third.

"Thanks, Jo," he growls over the tinnitus in his ear. "I didn't have that covered or anything." Elkins stands and they start moving through the abandoned school again, working together with an ease born of doing this far too many times.

"I could tell," Jo hisses venomously, "from the way you were just about to get killed." Dean grunts. They all pause as several sharp reports sound from elsewhere in the school and Dean spares a thought for Mer, Bobby and the rest of their merry band.

"Keep moving," Elkins snaps, brushing between them and taking point. They can't move too quickly, there are creatures lurking in the lockers. They've already been attacked twice. Dean really hates schools. This one looks like it's been abandoned for at least a year. Lockers are rusted, ceiling's caved in, end-of-the-world graffiti everywhere. The classrooms have all been empty so far. Except for the gym where they found a desiccated corpse hanging from a noose, a chair toppled over underneath it.

"I don't suppose your _source_ told you where in the school this mass sacrifice is taking place?" Jo says at his side. They don't talk about the angels much but Jo manages to make her disdain for them glaringly apparent at every opportunity. The angels mostly stay out of their way, absorbed in some grand plan that Anna and Castiel assure them means the destruction of mankind. But the few times their paths have crossed have just solidified Dean's "All Angels Are Dicks" theory.

"No," Dean says, peering into a classroom. It's dark and doesn't look like it's been dressed for a demonic ritual sacrifice.

Footsteps scurry behind them; Jo and Dean spin around, shotguns raised. Elkins and Ichi hold position, covering their blind side. Mills shifts constantly, scanning the lockers for movement, Danny mirroring him on the other side. They listen for any warning in the silence.

A figure launches itself out of the darkness and Dean fires on instinct. It screams, skin sizzling, hitting the floor with a wet thud. It pushes itself up and its face is a decaying mess of scoured flesh and rotten teeth.

"Shit, that's a Fury!" Dean recoils back, away from the poisonous claws swiping at him. Jo calmly steps in front of him and uses a spray bottle of holy water to drench the creature. It screams, an inhuman howl that crawls up Dean's spine. It launches itself at Jo, who ducks and slams the butt of her shotgun into its face. It dents the lockers and stumbles, dazed. That gives Mills time to pull out his silver-only gun and put a bullet through the creature's heart and head.

A series of muffled gunshots cut through the silent aftermath, one shot on top of the other fired from a semiautomatic. Dean counts the shots in his head and swears when he hits the end of a clip and the sound of gunfire ceases. Another series of shots comes from the opposite side of the school. Shit.

"They've been split." He moves towards the sounds instinctively; Elkins puts a restraining hand on his arm.

"Dean," he warns. "Stop acting the fool. The best thing you can do for them is stop this mess." Dean strains to hear anything else but the school remains eerily silent. Dean swears and turns back to the task at hand.

***

"Trix!" Mer yells as a demon jabs a broken pipe into her partner's chest, a sickening squelching sound filling the room as it's pulled back out. It smirks like it's won, but Trix is a badass and shoots it in its stolen face with some of his new-and-improved demon-hurting shot. The creature screams and vacates the dead host body, streaming into the air in a shower of smoke and sparks. It's going to be at least a week before the fucker can possess anyone else. Probably longer considering Trix hit it point-blank.

Mer hears more gunfire in the school and the sound of people moving swiftly through. Not her people, more demons, and Trix is slumped against the wall, bleeding. On top of that, she has no idea where Bobby, Danny and the others went. Fucking stupid getting split like that. Amateur. Her father's going to kill her if the demons don't get them first.

"Fuck!" Mer mutters. The footsteps are coming closer. She hauls Trix up by his shirt, using a little of her powers to make it easier—he's a short guy but solid muscle. The demons can sense her if she opens up too much, but Mer can only hope they overlook the tiny amount she's using now. "Christ, you have got to lay off the candy, T."

"Then what...would be the point...of living?" Trix pants, leaning against her. His shirt is soaked with dark blood and his eyes are going glassy. "I don't feel good."

"You got yourself stabbed by a rusty pipe," Mer accuses, hauling him into an abandoned science classroom.

"Oh right," Trix says inanely, trying to move his feet in the direction she's guiding. "Sorry about that, kiddo."

"Thank me by staying alive, Trixton." She shuts them in a storage closet and rips her top shirt off to use as a makeshift bandage. Trix muffles a scream when she presses down against his wound. With what attention she can spare Mer imagines the confines of their hideaway and tries to encourage anyone walking by not to pay it any attention. It's a long shot but there's a possibility the demons will accept the suggestion and overlook them.

"It's bad," Trix mumbles, trying to pull his shirt to one side. Mer swats his hands away and checks the wound. It's still seeping steadily, and Trix is getting paler by the moment. "You gotta leave me. I'll be fine. Find you...later." Mer snorts and ignores him. She pulls a couple of pressure bandages from one of her pockets and puts them on underneath the ruined shirt.

"Yeah, right. Not going to happen." Trix's eyes flutter and Mer feels cold fear settle in her. "T? Shit, Trix, you can't go to sleep. You need to stay awake. Trix—" She senses several demons hovering in the hallway outside their hiding place and pulls _into_ herself as completely as possible. They can't find her. She doesn't have a lot of room to fight here, especially with Trix out of commission. Can't find her, can't fin her, she's invisible, can't find her.

"The brat's here somewhere," a deep voice growls in frustration. Mer really wishes they'd stop calling her that. Sam put the biggest bounty in the world on her head, the least they could do is respect their potential meal ticket. "I want her dead."

"Then keep looking!" another voice snaps back. "We already got her away from her keepers." Heavy boots stomp across the floor. Doors are flung open and slammed shut. What must be an entire bank of lockers crashes to the floor. Mer freezes as the outer door to their classroom opens and someone comes in. Light steps—a woman's body or maybe a teenager's, given the venue. The footsteps pause. Mer tenses as the demon continues walking and stops right in front of their hideout. Fuck, what if Trix's blood left a trail.

The door swings open on silent hinges.

The demon's host was pretty, a young woman with long blonde hair and green eyes. The demon tilts its head to one side then lets her eyes flicker black. Mer's gun doesn't waiver, held in her dominant hand while the other keeps Trix's insides where they belong. Her finger tightens on the trigger until it's at the pull point.

She doesn't fire.

She can hear her father berating her in her head, but something tells her not to shoot and Dad's number one rule of hunting is to trust your instincts.

The sound of gunfire comes from farther down the hall, moving away from their hiding spot. More footsteps rush past and away, presumably towards Bobby and the rest of the team.

The demon glances towards the hallway then back at Mer. Her eyes travel to Trix and the pool of blood spreading out underneath him. She tilts her head and Mer feels dark power slide over her skin like oil, leaving goosebumps in her wake. She curls protectively over Trix and glares, but the demon just smirks and drops two hexbags on the floor. Even practically sense-blind Mer can feel how powerful they are. The demon turns away with a wink and Mer can hear her even, unhurried steps as she saunters away.

What the fuck?

***

Judging by the number of demons pouring out of the basement door and the bodies Bobby and his team have already racked up, they've found the sacrifice venue.

"'Bout time y'all showed up," Bobby grunts. "I'm running out of bullets."

"I'll believe that when I see it," Ellen says and blows the head off a tall teen in a sports jersey. Dean ignores the flair of regret he feels every time he shoots a teenage host body.

They've set up a pattern—two shooting, one reloading in rotation—that's helping keep the horde at bay, mostly because only so many demons can get through the doorway at once. Dean has a sinking feeling that the wrong kind of back up is about to come pelting down the hallway and then everything's going to go, almost literally, to hell.

"Bobby? Where the fuck is my kid?" Dean asks the second he has a chance to process. A particularly determined demon clings to his body despite the herbs and rocksalt and gets too close for comfort. Bobby steps forward and jams the butt of his shotgun into its face, then shoots it again. The demon abdicates with a scream.

"We got split up. She's with Trix."

There are too many demons. It looks...it looks like the entire town was infested at once. Or at the very least, any family with a teenager in it. Dean sees Creedy take down a young girl with dirty-blonde hair and his heart seizes in his chest.

_Not Mer,_ he tells himself. He'd know. Without a doubt he'd know. He takes his fear and channels it towards the demons coming for them.

"They've doubled back behind us!" Elkins yells. Ichi, Mills and Jo peel off and take position guarding their flank. Dean's watch beeps: zero hour. Ten minutes to interrupt the ritual or the Seal breaks.

"Plan F!" Ellen barks out, and they fall into position. The goal is to get to the door as fast as possible, lob a few flash-bangs down the steps and hope it's enough to stall the proceedings. They line up, four covering, two moving forwards. It's like leap frog, moving forward person-by-person, gaining ground with rapid-fire.

It takes them too long to get there.

They lay down suppression fire while Creedy, Elkins, and Ellen pull the tabs and lob the grenades over the demon's heads one right after the other. They hear screams and curses and Dean's watch beeps again.  
The silence is deafening, only their harsh breathing audible in the aftermath. Nothing comes out of the darkened stairwell.

No one moves.

Ichi slides more rounds into his shotgun and Dean winces at the noise.

A Fury hurtles out of the darkness and slams into Elkin's chest. He fires wild and yells when its claws sink into his ribs. It's blown away from two sides by Mills and Jo, and just like that the fight's back on, demons thirsty for blood, uncaring that they're bottlenecked in the stairwell. Dean has the sickening feeling that they're just killing host bodies.

Without warning a bright light fills the school and the demons fall lifeless to the floor, like dominos pointing away from Anael.

"Deus ex angelica," Jo mutters to Dean, wiping sweat off her face. Her eyes are flinty. "It's the latest fad."

"We cannot stay long. Trixton is hurt," Anna announces.

"Mer?" Dean asks, fear making his tone sharp.

"Concerned for her companion's safety but unharmed. They are in the science classroom." Dean forces himself to be rational and signals for Creedy and Mills to go get them.

"And the Seal?" Ellen asks.

"Unbroken." At least they have that, Dean thinks in relief. It's short lived when they finally enter the school's basement, carefully picking their way over broken bodies. Ellen cuts off a gasp before it's fully formed.

"They didn't have to kill them," Jo says, her voice small. Of course they didn't. She knows that, but even after everything she's seen this kind of massacre will never makes sense. It never should. She abruptly turns around and walks back up the stairs, her breath coming in short bursts. Ichi follows close on her heels. Ellen takes a moment to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder before following her daughter up the stairs.

Dean forces himself to take in the sight, to linger over every dead teenager in the room and to commit their faces to memory. They're all Mer's age, high schoolers who hadn't had a chance to really experience life yet. Several of them have been killed in gruesome, painful ways—the sacrifices, Dean assumes, from the expressions frozen on their faces and the tears still gleaming wetly. Or sport, after.

He squats down and closes the eyes of a young boy. The rest of the team checks for survivors but angels are fairly blunt instruments. Its easier to destroy everything in the vessel than separate the human from the demon.

"You shouldn't linger; I have information for you." For a moment Dean is filled with complete and irrational loathing for Anael and her distance from the scene before them. She claims she's out to save humanity but its suffering never seems to touch her. He wonders if saving humanity is just a side effect of her chosen agenda. He pushes the emotions down and paves them over with concrete.

"Yeah," he manages, and his voice comes out deep and rough. He turns to go, forces himself to look away.

***

Dawn has just broken when they assemble in the kitchen of an extended-stay motel that's been long abandoned. They haven't paid for a room in months. Cash stopped working months ago, skills and trades more valuable than a piece of green paper.

"Move again, Trixton, and I'll stake you to the wall." Darling Leslie, diminutive but with more than a share of Power in her, patches them up with the attitude of a drill sergeant.

"If you ever got possessed," Trix says as she sews up his shoulder, "we wouldn't be able to tell."

"Sure you would," Leslie says cheerfully, tugging at the string. "I'd just let you bleed out on the floor while I laughed." Trix smiles crookedly, but his heart isn't in it. They're all aware of Bobby, Mills and Creedy sequestered one room away. Sitting with Elkins and doing what they can while Fury venom eats away at him. Leslie gave Elkins a shot of morphine, but he hadn't wanted more than a small dose. Said he wanted to go out of this world with his eyes open or some old Hunter bullshit like that.

Dean studies them, his team and people, and wonders morbidly what it would be like to lose them. Danny is covered in grease and has car parts spread over one of the beds; his mechanical skills border on the supernatural and are always in demand when they meet with other people, but it's too dangerous for him to work outside right now. Jo and Ellen are mixing demon repellant and filling shotgun shells under Trix's direction. Trix will play up his injury to the full extent of his laziness once Leslie's finished with him, but he's got a sharp mind and an impressive intuition when it comes to the occult that's only matched by Bobby. And Ash...better not to ask what he's doing.

Which leaves gun cleaning duties to the Winchesters, something Dean could do in his sleep and doesn't really help him forget they're loosing a good man and a good soldier.

And he's still pissed at Mer but right now he's too tired to deal with that.

"You okay?" Dean asks his kid as they settle into their tasks. Mer rolls her eyes and were it not for the guns, Dean may have been able to convince himself they were just an ordinary family for a moment. Her eyes are bright but no tears will fall; they've both lost too many brothers and sisters in arms to let it show anymore. Not even to one another and Dean doesn't even have the luxury of wondering where everything went pear-shaped. He can chart it down to the minute.

"_I_ didn't get stabbed." _Or clawed,_ she doesn't add. Dean doesn't have the words to explain how that doesn't make him feel better at all, so he changes the subject.

"Anna left us a message," Dean says. He keeps a phone on him-largely a dead technology in this day-because Anna and Cas can always get a text to him. And even when she's actually around, Anna prefers to send him information by text instead of telling him face to face.

"Oh yeah?"

"We're headed to Appalachia tomorrow. She says there's something odd we have to check out." Dean tosses her a map, the coordinates already marked off.

"An angelic geo-cache," Mer sighs. There's no time to rest these days. There's always another hunt, another Seal to save. One right after the other. "Fantastic."

The dull sound of a fist crashing into drywall comes from the other room.


	30. Book Three: Chapter 2

Sam stares out over Philadelphia, the lights of the city blinking merrily. He can see Independence Hall from the building he transformed into his personal headquarters. It appeals to his sense of irony to be situated in the birthplace of American Independence. He traces the outline of the Hall with his finger; he leaves a crude etching in his wake. If Sam looks through the window the right way it looks like Independence Hall is burning.

He likes that imagery—one building burning merrily while the others stand untouched. Then again the reverse has merit too, everything around it reducedto ash and one building left standing as a reminder of what was. He'll have to think about it.

He closes his eyes and reaches out for Dean, ignoring Alastair's droning. He's to the West and...maybe a little South. Alive, but that's all he can tell. Dean could be bleeding out and he wouldn't know until the moment their connection was severed and that is unacceptable. The lack of knowledge, of connection, grates on him. Knowing that people are keeping them apart fills him with rage.

Sam is reaching the end of his patience with this situation. He's let Dean run around on him, waited for him to realize he's on the losing side and that he belongs to Sam. _With_ Sam. And what more can he do? He's left gifts and messages. Stood outside the fortress the angels made of Dean's mind, chipping away until the wards frayed and he could slip into Dean's dreams with barely a thought. He can offer Dean so many things if he'll just _come home._ But his brother is nothing if not stubborn, and he remains firmly devoted to his spawn.

He probes along the seams of Dean's defenses, brushes up against them and feels them tremble. They won't hold forever; Sam's already weakened them significantly. But his blood burns and his patience runs thin.

"Samael—"

"I am done talking about this," Sam snaps. Alastair talks and talks and talks, always about the same thing. Wanting Sam to do this, move faster, be better, stop worrying about his brother. To understand that once he takes the final step he can have anything he wants, he just needs to shape up and take responsibility. Alastair too often reminds Sam of John.

"Dean is distracting you from—" Sam takes Alastair's ability to talk. He slides tendrils of his power into the essence of the demon and begins to unmake him, unraveling that which makes him whole.

"You will not talk about my brother again," Sam says softly. He brings his power to bear and Alastair's eyes turn white, his powers battering futilely against Sam's. A trickle of water against the ocean's tide. He knows how much Alastair wants his brother; wants to string Dean up on his rack and make him sing. Has offered to customize Dean for Sam's pleasure. Sam had carved his refusal and displeasure deep into Alastair's twisted soul. "And if I find out you've ordered him harmed in any way you will not like the consequences."

Alastair glares, even in the face of Sam's greater power and his...creativity for torture. A creativity Alastair has been fostering and shaping but it's not enough. They have a job to do, an apocalypse to finish and a fallen angel to free. He cannot do it without Sam, but Sam is dragging his feet, whining about his brother standing by his side. Alastair doesn't bother to explain that Dean and Sam can never stand together in this—Dean is the other side's champion, Sam is theirs and never the twain shall meet. They were created to oppose. So Alastair slowly pushes their time table along, though he is not a patient person and occasionally rushes things—like now. There are times when he wishes Sam would destroy him, just so he never has to deal with their wayward Boy King again.

Alastair cannot back down and Sam...Sam will continue to stall until Dean is with him or dead. Alastair knows which of those will be easier to accomplish.

"Oh dear." The tension breaks, Samael's focus divided; it is not Alastair's day to die. His savior moves into the room and Alastair feels a fresh well of hate rise in him. Never in his years of becoming a demon has he wanted to hurt someone so badly and yet been so powerless to do so. "Has Alastair been a bad, bad boy today?"

"Alastair hasn't learned when to keep his mouth shut yet," Sam says. He caresses the side of Alastair's face, increases the power bearing down on the demon before letting him drop to the floor.

"Ruby," Alastair rasps, straightening. He sways, weakened, and snarls at her smirk. "I see you failed. Again." The Seal she'd been ordered to break is still standing.

Ruby sashays towards the couch, cocksure and reeking of death. She blows an insubordinate kiss at Alastair and drapes herself enticingly over the blood-red cushions. Sam returns to staring out at the city, ignoring them both.

"Failed? But I found Dean and his merry band of do-gooders," Ruby says. She studies her nails with feigned disinterest. (She chipped a nail. Damn.) Sam turns to her like a pointer catching a scent and she layers on her act so it's flawless. Alastair simmers in his loathing, torn between asking her where Sam's obsession is and his intense hatred for her impertinence. Alastair growls, frustrated, and Ruby grins. She slowly raises her eyes to meet his and their history stretches between them.

He remembers her from Hell, frightened and stretched out on his rack. He'd stoked the fires of her hate and carved her soul into pieces. She'd screamed promises of revenge with every cut until she learned to smile with the pain, to accept the marks, and enthusiastically take to her own training with the knife. Alastair knows her and that smile is about more than the loss of the Seal and 'stumbling' upon Dean Winchester.

"When I figure out what you're doing," he says silkily, "you'll never get off my rack." He'll enjoy drawing every scream, every admission from her. Ruby smiles at him coldly; Alastair's threats don't mean much while she's Sam's favorite. She shifts on the couch. A subtle scent fills the air, a warning that Sam is quickly losing his control.

"Leave now," Sam orders, his attention riveted to Ruby. He slinks forward, gait loose, leading with his hips. Alastair contains his disgust; he can't compete with this. Samael's fetish with his brother is inconvenient enough without Ruby making it worse.

"Yes, don't you have people to torture, Ali?" Ruby mocks. Samael hovers at one end of the couch and draws in a deep breath. "Your rack must be feeling so lonely with you up here playing politics." Alastair glowers but bows low to Samael before he exits.

"He was there," Sam says. He crawls over the armrest of the couch, predatory and intent. Sam scents his way up her body until they're flush together, his nose against her neck. She smells like leather seats, gunpowder, salt and home.

"He still looks like he's twenty-eight," Ruby says, exposing her neck; Sam smiles at the gesture, appeased. He wraps his hands around her wrists and pins her down, his hips forcing her lower body to still. She feels his power slither over her skin, seeking something she can never provide, just mimic. It's always strongest, most convincing, if she's been close to Dean, his essence bottled him up and layered him over herself. Sam loses himself in the scent and rhythm she conjures. Sometimes this is enough, the illusion taking the edge off Sam's obsession. Most of the time it only winds him up, the pre-show before the main event.

Sam huffs against her skin, losing himself in Dean's scent. She shifts, causing Sam to tighten his grip, dig his teeth into the thin skin at her neck. She whispers under her breath, _solvo_, imbues the word with meaning, and Sam surges into her. His senses tell him she smells like Dean, that her heart beats like his, that Dean is here. With him.

Ruby slips underneath his defenses for a moment, hooks a bit of her power into the fabric of his being.

The mirage begins to fall apart; Sam pushes too far, wants too much. Wants _Dean_ and substitutes won't do. He growls, a deep warning moving through him, when the body beneath him starts feeling too wrong. Doesn't react like it should. His fingernails dig into Ruby's wrists, drawing blood, and his power feels like pinpricks against her skin. Ruby feels the rise in danger, the knife edge of Sam's arousal and his fury at not having the one he really wants.

"He doesn't dream without you anymore," Ruby says, pressing up into him, the rough denim over her thigh catching on Sam's erection-a familiar move he still associates with Dean. It's enough to make Sam pause, the rise of power momentarily checked. Ruby doesn't move, all too aware of Sam's unwavering attention and barely leashed violence.

"He still won't say yes," Sam says, his veneer of control slipping back over feral foundations.

"You can convince him; he's _yours."_ Ruby nips his ear sharply, enough pain to make Sam hiss and chase the final vestiges of his lust away. She breathes easier when he rolls to his feet, towering over her. "Everything in him screams for you. You are _in_ him. He can't hold out."

"Set it up." She keeps her fear and relief hidden, cloaks it with the intricacies of the spell she'll be weaving. This is a dangerous path to walk and each time she emerges relatively unscathed is a victory.

Ruby carefully mixes the ingredients in an intricately carved chalice, a steady flow of Latin tripping off her tongue. Sam watches her closely and misses nothing, but Ruby's not dumb enough to try anything. Sam could snap her like kindling just because he's had a bad day.

The potion will add an additional layer to Sam's shared dream with Dean; they're already tightly bound enough that Sam can step into Dean's dreams without assistance. But this will make any agreement Dean makes in the dreamworld binding in the waking world and give Sam's suggestions extra strength and sway. She stirs in the dreamroot and the potion turns grey.

"It's ready," she says at last, letting her exhaustion show. She'll be useless for days after this but it can't be helped. She barely has enough left in her for one more spell spell-just enough, in fact.

Sam wordlessly picks up a silver anthame and slices along the length of his forearm. The blood spills into the bowl and the mixture begins to swirl on its own.

"Blood to blood," she intones and the brew settles, deep red. Sam drains it in a gulp and hands her the chalice. He lays back on the bed, vision already unfocused and hazy. His eyes slide-half closed and his breathing becomes deep and even, his fingers twitching and his muscles jerking as he slips into the Dreamworld. Ruby counts backwards from ten and then starts to work.

***

Dean's in a strip club. A high-class joint that's empty, just red leather chairs around small tables with individual stripper poles. Polished mirrors glitter everywhere. He's sitting right in front of the main stage, in the honey seat. A deep, rolling bass beat starts up.

"Classy, Dean." Dean's head snaps up. Sam slouches against the pole, hands shoved in his pockets and hips thrust out. He's wearing a light blue shirt and loose jeans that show his hipbones and Dean cannot look away. Sam smirks and hooks his thumbs though his belt loops, hands spreading wide to frame his crotch.

"Like what you see?" Dean drags his eyes up to Sam's face. Sam smirks and reaches above him to grab the pole. He undulates his body, a slow, burning roll that makes Dean flush. He grips the armrests of his chair. Sam laughs at him, low and dirty and far too familiar.

"You're thinking to much," Sam admonishes. He grins, dimples showing, and for a second Dean can pretend the last year never happened, but he _can't_ and he tries to stand up and escape. Dean gets pressed firmly back into the chair by broad hands that aren't there. His arms stick to the armrests and his feet spread and adhere to the chair's legs. He strains against the bindings but they won't budge. He sits back, swearing; he hates when Sam gets the drop on him.

"Just enjoy the show, Dean," Sam says with a touch of amusement.

Sam starts taking off his shirt with one hand, the other grasping the stripper pole above his head. It's lewd the way the buttons slide out of their holes, Sam's fingers nimble and deft. Dean sucks in a breath when the shirt falls open; being evil must come with a really good gym membership because Sam's more ripped than Dean has ever seen, muscles chiseled out of granite. Sam winks and grabs hold of the pole, swinging himself around so Dean can see every side of him. He flips himself over, up the pole, wraps his legs around it and slides back down, twisting slowly, arms spread wide as if he's being crucified upside-down. Halfway down he uses his hands again and holds himself parallel to the ground, arms straining to keep him upright. A rock of his hips has him spinning lazily around the pole, down down down to the ground.

"They teach you that in demon school?" Dean asks hoarsely as Sam gets to his feet. He tries to cling to his anger, to the feelings of loss and betrayal that follow him through his days. Sam just smiles like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Sam's belt makes a soft sound as he pulls it free. Dean presses his lips together and breathes through his nose. Sam pops open the button on his jeans and Dean can't hold back the soft exhalation that forces its way out.

Sam steps off the stage and right into Dean's space, looming. Dean has to crane his neck back to see Sam's face, miles above him.

"If you're very good, I'll let you touch," Sam whispers, and seats himself in Dean's lap. He's hot, so hot, and Dean's sweating so much his clothes feel uncomfortable. Sam knows—always knows—and his shirt slithers off so they're bare chest to bare chest. Sam moves, twists and rubs their crotches together, licks from Dean's shoulder to his ear.

It's the most effective form of torture Sam could devise.

Sam whispers things directly into Dean's mind—reminders of other times, promises for the future, images of Dean's darkest fantasies. Reminds him that there is nothing about Dean that Sam does not know—or will not accept.

Sam lays his hand right over Dean's heart.

His touch burns. His lips seal over Dean's mouth, sucks the air from his lungs. Dean's world tightens and becomes Sam, each point of contact all encompassing. Not enough, never enough.

_Come with me,_ Sam whispers in his mind, dark and heady. Dean moans and presses deeper into the kiss, to the point where Sam's teeth are almost cutting against his lips and he needs more. _You're mine. You know you're mine, Dean. Say it._ Everything in Dean wants to say yes—longs to say yes. He needs Sam, wants him, wants more of him. He strains against his invisible bonds. Touch, need to touch, need to...his eyes flutter open and Sam's eyes are no longer human. Darkness blooms in their depths in little bursts, changing Sam's familiar eye color enough that it snaps Dean out of it.

"No." The word is ripped out of him, it physically hurts to say. Sam's look of disappointed betrayal is hard to bear. Dean wants to reach out, draw him close, apologize and give him whatever he wants.

_"Dean,"_ Sam says, and he sounds...he sounds like Dean feels, needy and wanting and so fucking hurt—

Dean awakens up with a gasp, sweating and shaking. He knows if he looks there will be a fading red mark in the shape of Sam's hand somewhere on his body.

He rolls out of bed, mindful of the others sleeping in the room. He won't fall asleep again but there's always something to fix these days.

-

With great care Ruby rolls Sam over onto his stomach. She pulls a small packet of ground herbs out of a hidden pocket and quickly mixes the herbs into what's left of the potion—barely enough for what she needs to do—hyper aware of her surroundings. She waits agonizing seconds for the mixture to work, the different magical elements causing the liquid to bubble. When the concoction stops roiling she bites down hard on her tongue, drawing blood, and brings the cup to her lips. She mixes in her blood and saliva and feels the magic spark.

She drags her tongue over the expanse of Sam's back, the blood-potion dark against his skin. The sigil comes together with painstaking care, each figure laid out in precise measure over the canvas of Sam's back. When it's done, Ruby checks it one last time—a misplaced symbol could be disastrous.

When she's done, she whispers, "Papnor mad homil ol." The Enochian makes her shiver. The blood signs glow gold and then disappear into Sam's skin as if they were never there. But she can feel them, a faint echo in Sam, binding with the bits of herself she's slipped past Sam's defenses and left behind.

Satisfied with her work, Ruby slips into the bathroom to remove the evidence before Sam wakes up. She needs to rest, but finds the energy to mask everything she's done because even one slip-up will end her, and Alastair is ever suspicious.

***

Zachariah transitions from Dreamworld to waking world with a ruffle of his wings. Humans are so base, rutting together in such an unseemly fashion. So easily distracted. Moments later Uriel materializes next to him and snarls.

"I stink of humanity," he says disdainfully.

"We all must make sacrifices." Zachariah hums, a habit ingrained deep enough within his host that it's bled out into his own habits. A quick search of his host's memories tells him it's _How do you solve a problem like_... "Dean."

"He's weak." It will forever irk Uriel that a human-this human in particular-is so necessary to their plans.

"He's human," Zachariah says, though the terms are synonymous. "Samael is getting to him. We're running out of time"

"We should take him. I know a few places we could keep him until he's of use."

"And then Samael will focus on getting Dean back and not opening the Gates of Hell. No. We need something bigger. Something that will drive a wedge even between two people so erotically codependent on each other as Sam and Dean."

"My sources say the demons are displeased with their Boy King's...obsession with his brother." Zachariah contemplates his options. Slowly a plan comes together, ways to remove all of his obstacles at once. Sam won't move forward without Dean by his side; the demons have been slowly breaking Seals, but they need Samael's power to break the biggest ones and to throw open the Gates of Hell. Just as Dean is needed to open the Gates of Heaven. And while they play their games, Heaven's plans remain stagnated, subject to Samael's reticence.

And then there's Dean's abomination. The unprophesied child. The wild card. Zachariah hates when things are out of place and unpredictable. And that, he realizes, is the solution to all of his problems. Simple and elegant in its conception, for it has already driven a wedge between the brothers Winchester.

"Get word to your sources. I have the solution to all of our problems."


	31. Book Three: Chapter 3

"I'm telling you, you took a wrong turn," Dean says, tracing their route with his finger. There's just enough natural light to see by, the sun breaking over the eastern Tennessee mountains in a series of soft colors. They've driven non-stop for days to get here and while the road they're on is taking them vaguely in the right direction, he's pretty sure it's not the one they want. At least no one's around to witness their mistakes; Ellen'scompany is in Texas chasing leads. Bobby's crew have detoured to bury Elkins.

"_We_ haven't made a turn for miles," Mer sighs. Damned if she's going to let Danny take the fall for this. Dean was driving when any turns were made and one day he'll learn to switch out drivers when he starts navigating by the fading white lines on the side of the road.

"I think that's his point," Danny says, glancing at her in the rearview. Mer's slumped against the window trying to take a nap and argue with her father at the same time. She catches Danny's eye and makes a face.

"Danny! Eyes on the road!" Dean orders, knuckles white on the door handle, eyes wild. Danny huffs in frustration and dutifully returns his full attention to the endlessly empty mountain road. No one travels much these days except Hunters. The civilians that do wisely move about in caravans with lots of guns, safety in numbers. And even Before this road was probably sparsely traveled, the backwoods of Appalachia. "You ever put a dent in my baby, Danny Chu—"

"Dad, you're supposed to be sleeping," Mer admonishes muzzily.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll live to regret it," Danny finishes with an eye roll. Like he hasn't heard it a million times. Like he isn't the best precision driver and mechanic Dean's ever met; a car hasn't done something Danny didn't ask it to since he was twelve. That doesn't impress Dean when his baby's involved. It had taken months and a dozen emergencies to convince Dean that Danny could be trusted with the Impala, that he and Mer couldn't drive for days on end because rest was sometimes required and it was downright _fatal_ not to have them all in as good shape as possible. Still, Trixton was never allowed to touch the wheel, not even to shine it.

"To be fair, you'll be dead before you regret it," Mer says, "but I'm sure you'll spend your afterlife contemplating your sins."

"We definitely took a wrong turn," Danny says slowly and the atmosphere turns serious in an instant. The fairly well-maintained road abruptly gives way to crumbling, overgrown concrete that predates Sam's ascent to power. Danny brings the Impala to a stop just before a giant pothole that would rip the Impala's undercarriage to shreds.

"Mer, wake Trix up." Mer obediently pokes her friend into groggy awareness. Leslie had healed him as much as she could but his shoulder's still mostly held together by spelled string and prayer.

The road curves to the left and disappears from sight. Dean feels a sense of deja vu settle over him and...something else. He gets out of the car and walks down the road chasing the feeling. It only grows with every step. It's old but not menacing-it feels like being wrapped in a warm, familiar blanket.

"Wards," Mer says, coming up beside him. "Old wards. Really old."

"But still strong," Dean muses aloud. Mer shrugs noncommittally and looks to him for guidance.

Wards like these-not that he's ever felt anything quite like them, but the principle stands-take time and effort. So someone's maintaining them. For a long time, according to Mer. They're not evil, so there's a good possibility the people at the other end are friendly. Ish. Might teach them how to cast these wards and maintain them. Or they could be psychotic, that seems to be an option a lot of people choose. So.

"I think we're supposed to go," Mer says. There's a niggling little impulse she identifies as not entirely her own telling her to follow the road. Not overpowering or manipulative, just a simple directive.

Dean nods once and heads back to the car. He riffles through the weapons locker because there's no way he's going in unarmed.

"Either of you feel like following the yellow brick road?" Dean asks. Trix shakes his head, pressing a hand to his injury.

"Whatever you want, Boss," Danny says with a shrug.

"Okay. Guard the car with your life." Dean takes a shotgun with him; Mer tucks a single handgun and a flare gun into her double waist holster. Dean clips a short-range walkie to his belt. "We'll be back before morning. Come get us if we call or signal."

"We'll be watching," Danny assures him. His turns to Mer and says, for her ears only, "If y'all get into trouble, I'll risk the Impala's suspension."

"I don't think you'll need to," Mer returns just as quietly, a small smile on her face, and starts down the road after her father.

The road winds deeper into the forest before it narrows, barely a car's width wide. The concrete is even more cracked and overgrown here, turning into sand in some places. Something tugs at his consciousness and Dean inhales deeply.

"Smoke," he says. Mer nods her acknowledgement; she's got an absolute shit sense of smell, which comes in handy when the things they hunt explode but the rest of the time is a handicap. "Couple miles, I think." They keep walking and the day moves into early evening.

They round a bend and walk straight into the town that time forgot without any warning. A ochre-and-white sign welcomes them to Clinch.

The town is clean and well maintained, a tidy cluster of homes spilling into the woods. The brick is worn by age and the wooden slats are hand carved. The glass in the windows is rippled instead of perfectly translucent. There's a general store, a smithy, a haberdasher, a well, a dentist-cum-doctor and a few other buildings with no sign out front. The wide main road leads to a large meeting hall.

The entire place is eerily quiet, the only sound a stream or river off in the distance.

"Where are we?" Mer asks wonderingly. The hard-packed dirt roads have wagon-wheel grooves in them and hoof prints to match. Dean signals Mer to cover him while he dodges into the general store and takes a cursory look around.

"No dust, no people, but there are things that look new in there. Fresh produce and meat. No packaging or prices on anything," he reports. "But the ledger has today's date on it. Right year and everything."

"Okay, now that's weird," Mer mutters.

"Gets weirder." Dean holds out a standard Bic ball point pen, white plastic body with a black cap. It seem incongruous in this place that could be on a sepia postcard from the 1930s. "It works."

The silence is abruptly cut by the sound of muffled laughter and they turn as one, alert and tense. Two people stand on the porch of the meeting hall, framed by the white doors. There's an almost palpable air of expectancy to them.

"You got a feeling about this?" Dean asks out of the corner of his mouth.

"Not a one," Mer answers, a little put out.

"Me neither." They glance at each other, a world of trepidation transmitted in that look, and head cautiously down the street.

The figures reveal themselves as a wizened man with milky, sightless eyes and an equally old lady with a cane lowering themselves into rocking chairs. The man's eyes focus on each of them in turn and Dean feels the unmistakable sensation of a consciousness brushing over him, _into_ him. Mer straightens and brushes their hands together, using each other as a shield, so he knows she's feeling it too. He glances at her, sending out a little query. She shrugs sends back _still nothing; don't like that_. The woman snorts as if she can hear them.

"Well then, get on with it. We've been waiting for you," the woman says. She taps her cane imperiously on the porch.

"Uh..." Dean's always been eloquent in surprise.

"Is a shame the fate o'the world rests on youthful shoulders," the blind man sighs. "Y'all got no trainin' fer it."

"And what would the like of us do with the world, George?" the woman asks, amused. "Now, Dean Winchester, ask your questions 'fore the day is gone. You still have a ways to go." While Dean's used to his reputation preceding him these days, he doesn't think that's how this woman knows him.

"You shoulda took a left, you know," George tells them, "back at the fork."

"I told you," Dean hisses triumphantly, nudging Mer in the ribs. She scowls at him and he smirks. A polite cough draws him back to their hosts. "What is this place?" he asks, getting back on track.

"Clinch," George answers promptly.

"Ours," the woman says on top of him. She turns her gaze to Mer for the first time and her eyes are sharp. "You can call me Gran Emer." Mer nods and realizes that this is what most people must feel around her, when she plucks thoughts and impressions from the air as easy as others breathe, answering questions that haven't been asked. Gran Emer nods with something like approval.

"Is there a reason we're here?" Dean asks sharply, protective of his kid. Though he has a feeling George and Gran Emer see right through him. Gran Emer reminds him too much of Missouri for his peace of mind.

"Well, we had ta meetcha, didn't we?" Gran Emer

"Because you knew we were coming," Dean says, deciding the direct approach is probably the best here. He's pretty sure these two are the foci of the wards.

"Because we know you will come," Gran Emer answers and a chill shudders down Dean's spine, a sense of deep foreboding settling in his bones. The door opens, raucous laughter disturbing the air, and Dean's grip on his gun tightens. A slip of a girl, her long hair in a braid, and a younger boy with shaggy hair join them on the porch.

"Y'all need anything, Gran Emer?" the girl asks, flicking a glance at the newcomers. The way she says it, 'Gran' is a title of respect. She catches Dean's eye and blushes fiercely.

"You two go get our guests a plate," Gran Emer instructs. The girl bobs a curtsey and drags the boy, who's staring with unabashed interest at them, along behind her. They can hear her whispering recriminations at him until the door closes silently behind them.

"Senia and Henderson," Gran Emer says, nodding after them.

"Grandkids?" Dean asks.

"In a way. They're young but George and I will leave this town in good hands when it's time." Dean pulls his attention back to their hosts. Again he feels the familiar crawling sensation of a psychic who isn't Mer (or Sam, his treacherous mind whispers) reaching out to him, the touch clumsy and lacking in finesse.

The silence stretches between the four of them. Senia and Henderson return with four plates, each piled high with food. Dean realizes all his favorites are on his plate, and when he glances at Mer, her plate is full of food she enjoys as well.

"Not a lot happens in these parts without us knowing," George says. "'s how we like it. Quiet. It's a good life."

"But you, boy, you can't go nowhere without causin' a stir, can ya?" Gran Emer picks up, smirking at Dean. "Trouble with a capital T." Dean shifts uncomfortably; he can't shake the feeling there's an entire subtext to the conversation that he's missing.

"So then why am I here then?" Dean asks. The food, fresh and piping hot, smells like home and tastes even better. Dean thinks briefly of a small house on a sleepy lane in Iowa, the smell of fresh pancakes in the early morning air.

"Like I said, shoulda gone left," George says, and he wheezes at the end of his sentence. Dean's half afraid the old man will keel over in a strong wind. George huffs a laugh that turns into a hacking cough. "Don' worry yer head, young buck, I's gots time left t'me yet. Don' bury me afore my time." Gran Emer pats George's leg reassuringly and Dean shields his thoughts as tight as he can.

"Now don't go gettin' huffy," Gran Emer says, amusement coloring her voice, "ain't no danger from us. Like was said, we just needed to meet you first 's all."

"First?" Mer asks suspiciously. She's bristling protectively and it's cute, even though Dean knows what she's capable of.

"Yes indeedy, little miss," George says agreeably.

"Cryptic psychic bullshit," Dean mutters under his breath.

"You say something, boy?" Gran Emer snaps and Dean straightens up automatically. Missouri has trained him to that tone far too well.

"No, ma'am," he replies, and stuffs some cornbread in his mouth. This has been the most surreal meeting...probably not ever, but definitely in the top three. "Though with respect, I don't think I'll be coming back here again. It's a little...out of my way." George and Gran Emer share a look born from years of association, a look Dean remembers sharing with-someone else in his past.

"Well you might just be right about that," Gran Emer says, but she's looking sadly at Mer. Dean feels another shiver go down his spine and Mer...looks pale and defiant. He shifts so the back of his hand brushes against hers and—okay, wow, so much more than anger and they will have to have a talk about that.

"It's getting late," Mer announces, moving away from him. Folding back in on herself. She places her plate on the wide railing; she hasn't eaten enough. Dean glances at the sky and she's right. It'll be full dark by the time they get back, but they don't have anything supernatural to fear here.

"We've got people waiting on us," Dean says cheerfully. "We should get going." Mer makes an impatient noise, already at the foot of the steps.

"Be safe, Dee," Gran Emer says. Dean pauses, but lets it go; he'll never see these people again. "And we'd be much obliged if you kept us a bit of a secret. Dark times coming."

"Coming?" Dean asks skeptically.

"Thank you for you hospitality," Mer says, years of Whitney's insistence on politeness winning out over her discomfort. She tugs on Dean's sleeve, eager to go.

"You're welcome," George calls after them. "And don't forget to go left!"

-

Danny's busted out the night vision goggles and Trix is passed out in the backseat by the time they emerge from the darkness. He's plugged the hotplate into the Impala and heated up some chili.

"What'd you find?" he asks, handing them a couple bottles of water. Dean shrugs; he feels strangely unforthcoming about their time in Clinch.

"Nothing worthwhile," Mer says dismissively. Dean gets the feeling she's not just talking about the town. He also gets the feeling Danny doesn't believe them for a second but he's learned not to ask questions.

"Bobby radioed while you were doing nothing worthwhile." While texting tends to come and go, most of the hunters have gone to long range radios, and there are new relay points scattered around the country. "He says Missouri's headed to Five. You want to meet before or after?"

Five will delay them getting to Anael's coordinates by a week or more. Two days to get there, rendezvous with Bobby and whichever other Hunters are in the area, pick up supplies and then two days back. Then again, Bobby might lose his whole team once they hit the meeting point. Dean weighs the pros of having another team (or more) at his back instead of stumbling through the woods blind, or hauling ass all the way back through the mountains.

"Hit the coordinates first. We'll bunk here for the night." They might as well take advantage of Clinch's wards while they can. "We'll meet them at the split. And go left."

***

Dean trails his fingers over the accumulated things that litter their dresser. Deodorant, aftershave, a rarely used bottle of cologne, a money tray filled with coins. Dean's attention gets caught by an old macaroni-bedecked box colored with washable marker, a long-forgotten class project from happier days. He picks it up and turns it, studying its contours. Each piece of pasta is meticulously placed for maximum macaroni coverage. There's something rattling inside but when Dean tries to open the lid but it won't budge.

"I could help you with that clutter," Sam says from behind him, reaching for the box. Dean closes his hand protectively and holds it away from Sam. He can't be sure if this is really Sam or not, but he knows better than to give anything away.

"I like my 'clutter,'" Dean says pointedly, turning to face him. Sam's eyes glitter dangerously.

"Maybe. But you _love_ me, don't you?" Sam pulls Dean into a kiss by his shirt. Dean breaks his hold and tries to take over the kiss, to push Sam back, but Sam's a slippery customer and a few inches taller, which he uses to his advantage. And Dean only has one hand to really work with. Sam's hands come up and bracket Dean's face, large and encompassing. Dean grunts and tangles his free hand in Sam's hair, tugging on it sharply, but the pain just spurns Sam on.

Sam's hands move down Dean's body, bold and familiar, cupping Dean's ass and pulling him up on his toes. Dean bites down on Sam's lower lip in retaliation. It's a battle between them; this always is, these days. Dean can't keep Sam out of his head but he can let them both know he's not beaten.

One of Sam's hands cups Dean's elbow, his thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at the crease before moving on. He circles Dean's wrist before lacing their fingers together. He uses his longer reach to tug Dean off balance, then frowns. He abruptly pulls out of the kiss and brings Dean's hand up to look at it. The box is inside Dean's palm, the image of it like a 3-D tattoo in his skin. Sam growls and rakes his teeth over the Dean's palm, sucks a bruise into the mark that obscures part of the box. Dean gasps, the scrape of teeth leaving him shaking with arousal.

"No," Sam growls when the box won't disappear. He huffs in frustration and closes Dean's hand, his grip crushing. Dean smirks and hip-checks Sam towards the bed. Sam's at his most possessive and won't be moved. He uses their momentum and spins them around until Dean goes crashing to the mattress. Sam pulls Dean's hands above his head. The headboard closes around his wrists and holds him in place. Dean snarls and bucks but Sam just balances his weight right across Dean's pelvis. Dean's gasps at the familiar position and Sam grins with all the mercy of a shark.

"I'm going to mark you," Sam says, and fastens his teeth on Dean's right pec. Dean hisses and writhes but Sam's like a terrier, shakes his head just enough to create deep impressions of his teeth. His tucks their hands together, then scrapes his fingernails over the sensitive pads. Sean grunts when Sam's nails draws blood right over the embedded box.

"Sam!" Dean yells, and tries to pull a defensive move with his legs. Sam blocks him easily. He uncaps a pen with his teeth, a thick felt calligraphy marker in dark red. Sam's eyes are squinty and his lips pressed together as he completes scrawling _Property of Sam W._ over Dean's collar bone.

"Possessive fucker," Dean grunts and shifts. Sam's writing skitters off, a thick black line down Dean's ribs, when Dean manages to press his thigh against Sam's balls and rub. A little more and he can plant his foot in Sam's chest and send him flying.

"You have no idea," Sam says with a sly smile. He starts drawing again, using the inadvertent mark as a guide and it takes Dean mere seconds to figure out what. Son of a-

"Penises are for black outs, Sam!" Dean yells, trying in earnest to get away. It's one of their few hard-and-fast rules, instituted after one particularly vicious summer when they almost blew a hunt because they were both too wary of the other to get enough sleep. Sam cackles and Dean feels him draw little splooge marks. He can lift his head enough to glance down his body and see the epic, veiny cock Sam drew on him. "You fucking c-"

Sam kisses him with fierce possessiveness and Dean is suddenly so achingly, astoundingly turned on he can barely breathe. Sam drags the pen over his heated skin and every stroke makes him shudder. Sam drags the nib over Dean's nipple and it hurts and feels so good. Dean's body shudders and he whines, the fight gone out of him. He needs-so much.

But Sam ignores him, concentrating on his masterpiece. His mark. Dean's fists clench reflexively and the sharp edges of the box dig into his palm; the edges cut into the scratches on his palm and his blood spills.

Sam must have finished because he surges upwards and kisses Dean, his teeth biting into Dean's lips. Dean knows this fight, they've been having it for years, and it's all the more fierce for what's happened between them. They both think the other might cave with just the right application of teeth and tongue and lips; it hasn't worked yet, not even made a dent, but that doesn't stop them from trying.

Dean frees his legs and wraps them around Sam's waist, pulls him in tight. Sam grunts and lays biting, stinging kisses along Dean's neck, up to his ear where his hot breath makes Dean shudder.

"Yes," Dean hisses. He realizes that whatever Sam's drawn on him has transferred, smeared a copy on Sam's chest, dark black lines and symbols against sex-reddened skin. For a moment Dean focuses on the symbol, something he's seen before, his hunter instincts trying to fight free but Sam surges forward, and he gets lost in the feeling of Sam.

Dean rolls his hips and sinks his teeth right above Sam's jugular, the ones spot he knows drives Sam wild. Sam shouts and thrusts harder, but Dean's arms are free so he uses them to flip them over. He overestimates and they tumble once, twice. They stop with Dean straddling Sam, his breath caught in his throat. He's braced himself against Sam's chest and when he moves leaves behind a smear of red.

Dean can't breathe, can't remember how that works and his vision swims, grays out and for a moment Dean wonders if that whole dying in your dreams thing is true. The world around him sways, tinges white and sparkly and floods with warmth. He hears Sam cry out and arch beneath him. Dean opens his eyes and realizes he's pressed the box into Sam's chest and it's burning him. He rips it away and there's a random, chaotic imprint of the macaroni on him, bright colors seeped into the brands.

Sam pushes himself up. Dean watches, wary, as Sam looks at the mark. He snarls and Dean flinches away.

"Dean," Sam breathes, eyes flat, and disappears. Their room is stifling in its silence.

He raises his hand and finds the box nestled there looking so innocent. Some of the color has come off on his hand, staining the skin in a riot of mixing colors. He tries the lid again. It opens easily and a small piece of paper falls out, yellowed and fragile. Even as he unfolds it bits crumble off, fading away. He can barely make out the writing on the paper, some of the carefully formed letters in large, shaky child's font-each letter precisely and painstakingly put down-nearly non-existent.

_For Atta and Dada, Happy Father's Day! Love Mary Winchester_

The edges of his reality starting to collapse, his mind surging up to awareness, and Dean watches the paper crumble into nothing.

Sam wakes up. He rolls over and stretches, joints popping. He lays there, naked on blood red silk sheets-sometimes, it's really wonderful being a cliché-taking in the daylight.

"Good night?" Ruby's curled in a large plush chair, a very old book open on her lap.

"Fine." Sam abruptly rolls out of bed and on to his feet, bouncing with energy and still gloriously naked. She looks him up and down and he allows it; her admiration amuses him.

"You did it." Ruby draws her finger down Sam's chest and he feels a thrill of pain. The bonding mark he'd painted on Dean last night, and subsequently taken unto himself, stands out a pale pink. Though weakened by being cast in the dreamstate, the bond will still try and pull them together. Strengthen their ties.

Dean will fight, but Sam will win. He's almost got all his pieces in place.

Ruby frown and reaches towards the brand high on Sam's shoulder, just under his collar bone. Sam intercepts her hand, the atmosphere turning lethal in seconds flat. There's murder in Sam's eyes, the kind of rage he only reserves for one person so she lets it go.

***

Bobby looks like he needs a break and Dean hopes Anna hasn't sent them after some sort of über demon or whatever. They mix up the cars, Trix stretching out in the back of Bobby's extended cab with relief.

It takes them two days to get to their final destination. The road they're on, which wasn't well maintained to begin with, turns away from the coordinates. They find a pull off, overgrown and well hidden, that gets them a little closer but eventually they have to pitch tents for the night and continue on foot in the morning. Trix and Leslie stay behind to guard their camp.

They hike for almost three hours through dense foliage until the forest gives way to a clearing, the center of which are Anael's coordinates. The trees stop abruptly in a precise curve. The clearing itself is covered with lush grass and a few clumps of flowering shrubs—nothing that grows above the knee—dot the landscape.

"Well that ain't natural," Bobby grunts, slinging his pack between his feet. They spread out along the border, none of them setting foot onto the grass. Bobby reaches into his bag of tricks and pulls out some binoculars and an EMF, which he hands to Dean. Mills and Creedy start tossing various things past the border to see what happens, but everything just lands on the grass like normal. Mer settles down on the ground and tentatively reaches out with her mind, Danny hovering over her protectively.

"Near as I can tell, it's a perfect circle," Bobby says. He hands the binoculars to Dean. "Creedy, you wanna take a walk?" Creedy grins at them a little maniacally and disappears into the woods with barely a whisper.

"This thing isn't even bleeping," Dean grumbles. Normally everything gives off a little EMF—an impression of something left behind, the echo of an emotionally-charged event. Enough to make the needle twitch. But here? Dead as a doornail.

Dean scans the edges of the clearing and frowns 'cause Bobby's right; he can make out the smooth curve of the tree line that doesn't occur in nature.

"How big do you think it is?" he asks. He reaches out a hand and pokes at the air. He doesn't encounter any resistance, no tingly feeling of a spell, no flair of warning.

"Maybe two miles wide. I don't like it." A bird caws loudly and wings its way towards the edge of the clearing; they all let out a breath when it crosses the threshold without incident, disappearing into the distance.

"You gettin' anything, Mer?" She doesn't respond which worries them both. Dean moves to her and lays a hand on her head. She's not in distress, but she's not entirely there either. Dean opens his senses as much as he can but doesn't get much of anything back. He's not surprised, he's crap at this kind of thing and it makes him itchy. He can feel Mer at his side, vibrant and very much alive, and to a lesser extent Bobby. But beyond that, he's just standing in the woods, staring at a clearing.

Mer opens her eyes and blinks languidly, pulling her awareness back in.

"Mer?" Bobby prompts.

"It doesn't feel like anything," she says with a frown.

"That a bad thing?" Bobby asks skeptically.

"It's...unusual," she says slowly. "Most things have a personality. People and animals, living things, they leave impressions. This place feels empty. Like nothing lives here, or has ever even been here." She shrugs because that's all she has. The place is just...untouched. Pristine. From the outside, at least. Neutral might be a better word. "For what it's worth, I don't think either side has something that could create this."

"You don't _think?"_ Bobby says, scratching his beard. Mer rolls her eyes and turns into a stubborn teenager on him. "Well, someone's gotta go first."

Danny saunters into the clearing before they can talk it to death.

"Danny," Dean snaps, but it's half-hearted and routine. Danny has volunteered as the test dummy since he hooked up with them. Dean's too valuable to risk and if anything happens to Mer then all the things they do to keep Dean safe are moot. That doesn't stop Mer from pushing the boundaries and doing stupid things, but Danny and Trix help where they can.

Dany stops a few yards in. He waits and waits and nothing happens. He glances back at them, shrugs, and edges a little further. Eventually he's not within easy sprinting distance. He turns a slow circle, waits for the other shoe to drop. Nothing. It's actually a little disconcerting. He shuffles side to side, spins and does a couple of sprints. Still nothing. He passes over the boundary twice, in different places, with no ill effects, once back where he entered and the other across the way, down where Creedy was heading. No matter what he does nothing pings their hunter senses or sets off any kind trap. He jogs back towards them.

"Everything seems copacetic," he calls. A movement from the left distracts them and Mills strides into the glade a few feet down from them, his shotgun slung over one shoulder. None of his charms or hex bags react. He glances at Bobby and shakes his head once. Nothing

"This is boring," Mer sighs, and before they can stop her she jogs into the clearing with long, ground-eating strides.

"Mary Winchester!" Dean snaps. Bobby tries to grab her but he's too slow.

"Goddamn it, Dean, see what you've done?" Bobby gripes. Damn the Winchester's and their genetic hard-headedness.

"What? How is that my—Mer?" A few steps past the threshold Mer's steps falter; she stumbles drunkenly, her momentum carrying her forward, and it's a testament to her training that she remains coordinated and moving for as long as she does. Danny's almost to her when she crashes to the ground.

"MER!" Dean struggles against Bobby, who's holding him back and yelling at him, trying to get him to stop. Dean puts his elbow into Bobby's solar plexus and scrambles over the line. The world tilts and he falls hard to his knees. The _silence_ is overwhelming. He feels numb and blind and there's nothing, a vast amount of nothing that abruptly gives way into an onslaught of _everything_. Somewhere, distantly, farther away than Dean can comprehend, someone is screaming.

"Dean! Dammit, Dean—no, do not bring her out, do you hear this? Dean! Pull yourself together!" The words are too much, roaring in his ears with a vengeance, and Dean curls up to protect himself, only that doesn't help because he can't get away, it's in his head and it's so fucking _loud_ and for a second—a brief, agonizing second—he feels Sam in a way he hasn't for over a year. It hurts, the way Sam floods into his mind, but it's familiar and he welcomes the pain. For a moment, a horribly glorious moment, it's the only kind of pain Dean feels.

"Wake up!" A fist cracks across his face—fucking _Bobby_—and Dean bolts upright. His shields snap up and Sam fades into nothing. The world lurches again and his stomach roils. He grimaces and takes a long, steadying breath. He wants to throw up so badly.

"Jesus boy, what the hell do you think you're doing?" Bobby demands. Dean tries to pull away but he's so weak. "Stop fighting us!"

"I'm fine. I'm fine, let go, where's Mer?" Dean struggles and Bobby flips him over, one of his knees digging into Dean's kidney. Dean freezes in sheer self preservation and after a couple of breaths Bobby eases off of him. Dean gingerly pushes himself to his knees but keeps his head down. The world hasn't stopped spinning yet.

"What the hell happened?" Bobby asks gruffly.

"You didn't feel that?" Dean asks harshly. Bobby had crossed the boundary to get him, how could anyone have missed it? His vision finally starts working and the first thing Dean sees is Mer curled on the ground a few feet from the edge, Danny and Mills hovering protectively. Neither of them appear to have been affected.

"When you came to get me, what did you feel?"

"Nothing," Bibby says after sharing a glance with Creedy, and when had he gotten back? "Neither of us felt like doing a faceplant. You wanna tell us what's going on?"

"Nothing," Dean says thickly, closing his eyes against the nausea threatening to rise. "It was...quiet." He doesn't have to open his eyes to know Bobby and Creedy are having a silent conversation over his head. He doesn't expect them to understand.

"Um, guys?" Danny calls and Mer moans piteously.

"Mer?" Dean calls, and when Dean tries to stand Creedy just hauls him upright. Dean gets a shitload of impressions from him and pulls away with a cry.

"Oh God. Dad?" Dean winces at the sound of Mer gagging. It does not help with his own struggle to keep his lunch where it should be.

"Mer!" he yells. Danny's turned her on her side, a hand laid on her back as she shudders. Dean tries to get to her again but Bobby puts himself between Dean and the clearing, not touching him, just using his body as a barrier. Dean would have to push him to get by but the thought of touching anyone, getting a flood of unwanted impressions in his current state, is a bad idea.

Mer sits on the ground, head between her legs, and takes a deep breath. A moment later her head snaps up, eyes wide with panic and somehow Dean know's she's _reaching_ for him and finding that same wall of silence. Emptiness. Nothing. She scrambles towards him, breath coming fast and harsh.

"Dad. Dad, I can't...there's nothing there, where are you?" She can't get her legs under her and Danny's pulling her back, Bobby's yelling and everything's pretty much going to hell when Creedy's piercing whistle overrides them all.

"Alright, if we're done acting like a bunch of amateurs," Creedy chastises, his New England drawl abrasive and cutting. "Danny, Mills, how you two feeling?" Mills salutes.

"I'm fine," Danny answers, arms still locked around Mer's torso, holding her in place.

"Mary?" She shakes her head in lieu of answering out loud.

"She's shaking," Danny offers helpfully, and Mer's expression twists in annoyance.

"Dean," Bobby prompts, taking control of the situation. "What happened? And don't say 'nothing' 'cause you already tried that."

"There's just...nothing. And then everything," Dean tries to explain. He sighs and lets himself feel them, just for a second. The impressions he gets back are like salt in an open wound and Dean flinches. Bobby's filled with worry, concern so deep it's a part of him; Creedy is calm, he's been in worse situations than this, and underneath he misses Elkins with a sharp, stabbing pain. But where Mer (and Mills and Danny) should be is just a wall, slick and untouchable. He wouldn't even know it's there except he can see Mer but not feel her. "It's like...like someone fired a shotgun right by your face and you can't hear or see anything. And then it's like you were born without any senses and all of a sudden you have them and it fucking sucks."

"So it's a...block?" Bobby hazards. "A psychic block?"

"Oh my God, is that what it feels like to be _normal?"_ Mer demands, sounding horrified. Danny laughs and Bobby rolls his eyes. Dean feels Bobby's worry ebb, just a little 'cause Bobby never stops worrying about them.

"Well I'm glad to see you're feeling better," Bobby says sarcastically.

_"Dad,"_ Mer says, and there's a touch of controlled desperation in her voice. Dean gets it; fuck, does he get it. Losing the awareness of someone so abruptly, realizing you've taken it for granted and you'd do almost anything to get it back...

"Bring her over," Dean orders. He grits his teeth when Danny looks to Bobby for confirmation but keeps calm.

"Dean—" Bobby starts.

"Do not," Dean snarls, and puts some of his power behind it. It's excessive and not something he's ever tried on Bobby before. And he can tell that Bobby feels it, the bitter stab of shock like a betrayal. "Danny! Move."

Mer's steadier on her feet but she sways like there's an imbalance in her inner ear, throwing her off. Danny shadows her to the edge where she pauses, looking at Dean with wide eyes. She's scared, which he understands completely; he'd only been across the boundary for seconds and getting pulled out felt like being burned from the inside out. This is likely to be so much worse.

"It's going to rush back, all at once, and it'll hurt like hell." It occurs to him later that this is the one time in his life he could lie to her and get away with it. "I'll be right here." She takes a deep breath and steps out of the clearing.

Dean catches her when her knees buckle, wraps her in his arms and holds her close like he used to do when she was little. He's acutely aware of everyone watching them, a protective circle of hunters on high alert. Watching, feeling Mer pack away all the extrasensory input that assaults her, is painful. It certainly puts the growing pains they'd gone through when she was a baby into perspective.

"Could you stop thinking so loud?" Mer groans against his chest. Dean laughs, a strangled kind of sound, and tightens his hold. Attuned as he is, Dean can feel the exhaustion settle over her. It's going to be a long hike back but they've got daylight left so they'll damn well sit here until they're both ready to go. "Jesus, Dad, Bobby's not going to leave us here."

"I do not even want to know," Bobby says with a glare. He taps a bottle of water against Dean's head as punishment. Dean shrugs unapologetically; doesn't count unless he says it aloud. Mer sits up and gratefully accepts her own bottle.

"Whenever you're ready to talk, we'd all love to hear it," Creedy finally says when the silence gets to be too oppressive. Mer makes a production of finishing her water one drawn out gulp at a time. Creedy's glaring bloody murder at her by the end.

"Well, for one thing, I don't think it's a block," Mer says. "I could kind of feel Danny and Mills. Just...less. I think it's more like a firewall?"


	32. Book Three: Chapter 4

Sam's in the middle of the Vatican vaults when it disappears. He misses a breath, can't place what's wrong, just that there's no air. No air, no sound no-no _Dean._

Though the angels can block his ability to track Dean, they are tied together at a fundamental level. Their bond is immutable. He always knows, without a doubt, that Dean is alive, a buzz in the back of his mind.

And now he is _gone._

Sam sends his consciousness hurtling outwards, towards Dean, acting purely on instinct. Everything in him channeled frantically into his brother, clawing at where he should be, screaming. Sam steals power from wherever he can but it's not enough never enough; it only takes moments, the space of three heartbeats, but Sam destroys every creature-supernatural or otherwise-around him, drains them dry.

The second Dean returns to him, his confusion and pain bright in Sam's mind-_close_ in a way Dean hasn't been for far too long-is overwhelming. For a moment Dean is unguarded and open to him and Sam immerses himself in his brother. He surrounds himself in familiar thought patterns; the colors of Dean's very core tinged orange with pain but still the deep, unwavering mesh of green-gold-blue; the depth of Dean's affections for Sam are vast and unending, undiminished by their year of separation and Sam's possessiveness preens at that. He tries to sink in deeper but the angels' protections kick in and shove him away. He reels back, snarling, presses a hand to his eyes then tries to shake the tinny ringing out of his ears. Something slides over his lips; his nose is bleeding sluggishly.

**"Ruby!"** The command will find Ruby no matter where she is and bring her running. He ignores the broken bodies that had once housed his demons, many of them missing eyes and bleeding from their ears. He stalks to his room, folding reality around him. The percussion of the folds snapping back behind him leave giant scars in the land as he goes.

Ruby is waiting when he arrives, the smell of dark magic already permeating the room, a body half-wedged under the bed.

***

Dean wakes up in the Impala and smiles. His nose is pressed against worn leather, the smell of it bringing to mind dozens of his best memories. He loves his car for so many reasons: the welcoming give of the seats, the low rumbling purr of the engine, the amount of time he's spent inside it, making it his, the feel of skin-warmed leather against his arms, a hotter source of heat against his back.

A hand splays over Dean's chest, coming to rest over his heart, another running over his hip. He's not wearing any clothes. Neither is the person behind him, whose breath is damp along Dean's back. The hand on his hip slips down and pulls; Dean shifts, resting against the sturdy chest behind him, leg draped over someone else's hip. Dean sighs, contentment and arousal loose in his chest.

"Sammy," he murmurs, hips moving in lazy little jerks. There's no way they should be able to fit like this on the back seat of the Impala, spooned together. Dean doesn't care for that thought but it buzzes around him, incessant and - "Sam." The hand around his chest turns constrictive and he starts to lose the hazy edges of the dream. Starts gearing up for another fight.

"You were gone," Sam says, fingers digging in right above Dean's heart but it's his voice that slides into Dean's skin like hooks. He buries his head in Dean's neck, eyelashes fluttering, and Dean remembers...the moment he stepped out of the glade, the rush of sensation and the overwhelming sense of desperate fear that wasn't quite his own. _Sam,_ his mind identifies and begins picking through the memory, parting the layers and naming each one. Dean feels himself choking up, tears gather in his eyes because he has no distance from the emotions, no desire to fight today, no walls or defenses just-Sam moves, just enough for Dean to feel, to ground himself in their connection.

"Sammy-" Sam bites down on Dean's shoulder, teeth digging into him, catching and pulling and Dean can't help but push back against the pleasurable burn that chases away the last of the memory. He braces his hands against the leather of the seat and pushes so they roll off the seat and onto their bed, Dean astride Sam's hips, hands braced on his chest.

Sam smiles, lazy and just a little impish. He runs a hand from Dean's knee up to his tattoo, the one over his heart that's the twin to Sam's but here Sam's touch on the ink is electric. Dean arches back, small noises getting stuck in his throat and it feels so good.

Sam sits up to mouth at Dean's throat, teeth dragging across his Adam's apple. He slides his hands behind Dean's knees and pulls, propelling him backwards. Dean curses when he lands, pressed back into the bed. Sam's strong, stronger than he ever was before, each muscle group distinct and sculpted. It's thrilling how easily he handles Dean.

"Promise me," Sam whispers, pulling Dean's leg up around his ribs. Dean hears the words but they don't stick. A bead of sweat rolls down Sam's neck and onto his chest.

Dean wants to reach out and touch it, wipe it away but his arms are over his head, the metal of the Impala's door a familiar bite, and he can't move them.

_"Dean."_ Sam drags his thumb over Dean's lips, eyes darkening (too black) when Dean sneaks a taste. His fingers glide down to Dean's neck and settle against his jugular, feeling the steady thrum beneath. Dean closes his eyes and tilts his head back. Shivers when Sam's hand settles on his throat, the dip between his thumb and pointer finger fitting perfectly above Dean's Adam's apple. Sam squeezes and Dean's can't breathe and then he can.

"Sammy," Dean tries to say, but Sam tightens his grip at the first sound. Dean arches up into Sam trying to find friction; his world grows hotter, his sweaty skin catches against the leather, and he can't move his muscles.

"Promise me," Sam pleads, licking the shell of Dean's ear. Dean sucks in a deep breath, air cool and crisp in his lungs.

"Anything," Dean gasps. His world is the feeling of Sam's hand around his throat.

"Stay with me," Sam cajoles. Dean hisses and strains against whatever is holding him down, curses Sam's bondage fetish. Except he's holding himself, fingers white-knuckled around the handle. Dean stretches his leg until his foot hits the passenger seat. "Promise me you'll stay. Forever." The word echoes around the space.

"I-" The buzzing's back, an alarm ringing in the distance trying to chase away the warmth and Dean... "I want that." Sam makes a small, triumphant noise. He traces something on Dean's chest and his touch feels like the prick of a tattooist's needle. The feeling spreads along his chest and the buzzing grows.

"Come on," Sam urges. He whispers, just a puff of breath that becomes a steady, mindless chant of, "Please please please please."

"Ye-" Dean chokes on the word when the burning sensation intensifies. He wishes he could see the tattoo and a mirror appears over him but the image is warped. Wrong. Sam's muscles are too defined, too big; a pair of read and black tattooed wings loop over his back, intricate and detailed. They move independently of Sam, shifting over the muscle. Sam lifts up to pull Dean to him and Dean sees... Sam's hand leaves a red outline in the middle of his chest. Black lines pulse out from it, through his veins and into his blood. There's ancient writing in languages he'll never speak. They move in time with Sam's wings. It's terrifying. It's beautiful.

He's not in a bed, he's on the cramped back of the Impala, Sam almost folded in two on top of him.

"I...oh, I..." Dean opens his eyes and there's Sam, looking down at him with black eyes, his irises a thin ring of green. Dean leans up, arms free, and pulls Sam into a kiss. Sam stills for a moment and then kisses Dean back, starving, demanding. Dean gives into him, twining his finger's in Sam's ridiculously long hair, pulling and tugging until Sam moans for him. They break away and before they can come back together-

"I love you," Dean says, and the world around him disappears.

Dean wakes up in his sleeping bag, hand wrapped around the butt of his favorite sawed-off. The details of the dream are already fading but Dean knows the gist of it. Sam wants him to promise, Dean always refuses. He doesn't know what his agreement would do but he can't afford to find out.

That doesn't stop part of him from wanting to agree. To get it over and done with, to finish this fight and...

He knows from experience that sleep will be a long time coming after this and he's got last watch so he doesn't even try. He rolls out of his sleeping bag and ignores the sweat making his clothes stick uncomfortably. The night air has a bit of a bite to it.

Dean silently threads his way through sleeping bodies, signaling Creedy that everything's fine when the man's eyes slide open.

"Somethin' on yer mind?" Bobby asks, passing Dean a cup of coffee.

"Can't sleep." Bobby shoots him a skeptical look but doesn't press the issue. He'll take extra kip wherever he can find it. Bobby settles down on his fold-up army cot with a sigh and falls asleep. Dean adds wood to their small fire and settles in the chair.

Mer, Trix, and Danny are sleeping in a row, head-to-foot-to-head. They look young and innocent if one ignores the knives and firearms placed within reach.

Dean stares off into the woods and waits for sunrise. They're headed to what passes for a metropolis these days in the morning.

***

There are people milling everywhere, more than he's seen in one place for over a year. That's the nature of Five. There's a giant devil's trap made of iron buried six feet under the soil here—in addition to a bunch of other very powerful wards and charms that are constantly reinforced layered for miles around it—nearly five miles across, with smaller traps buried at random intervals. Which makes Five one of the biggest, most defensible meeting points in the country, right where Mississippi, Arkansas and Tennessee come together. There are nine spots like this spread over North America that they know of, the largest being Thrieve in Oklahoma with a ten mile radius and an actual permanent town atop it.

No one knows who made them, or why, but they're there.

These are the safest places they have, way stations where Hunters gather and rest, restock and share information. There are a handful of permanent structures in Five but it's mostly a collection of tents, an impromptu bazaar with people trading for clothes, ammunition, weapons and news. There's even a mail tent where interested parties help out the beleaguered US postal system, which is unreliable at best these days and highly volunteer. The doctors and healers talk patients and strategies and fill each other's pharmacies as best they can. Innovations and new methods of combating the dark are shared, notes compared.

They choose a camping ground near the south-east edge and almost every Hunter in the area makes it a point to stop by their corner of the universe. Bobby and Dean are famous in their own right within the Hunter circle (though as Dean's the de facto leader of Team Anti-Hell there's an added allure). The two of them together is the stuff of legend.

Mer sits on the roof of the camper they've commandeered and listens to the chatter for names she recognizes. All of them tell stories. About the people they lost hte creatures they fought, the battles they've one. She likes the ones from Before best; they're like snippets of her family's history she's never heard.

A familiar voice cuts through the chatter and she sits up, alert.

"Rufus!" She slides off the car and runs to him. His wan face splits into a grin and he sweeps her up in a hug.

"Girl you are a sight for sore eyes," he says. Mer notes his team goggling in the background. Rufus is also a legend from Before, almost as much as her dad and Bobby though he likes to 'strategically downplay his experience.' He's focused and intense; Mer's never seen him smile for anyone but her. She loves it even though she suspects it's because she reminds Rufus of someone he lost—his own daughter or a sister, maybe, but she's made it a point not to pry.

"Buy a girl a drink?" she teases. He laughs and slings an arm over her shoulder. He waves to Dean who acknowledges him with a nod.

"Sure thing. And you can tell me what you've been up to. I heard you got lost in a high school?" Mer rolls her eyes and starts correcting the record with the enthusiasm of the unjustly accused.

-

Dean wonders if this is what it was like to be a celebrity, people constantly wanting your attention. He lets them do most of the talking, drinking his beer and nodding when appropriate and wishing he could escape. It's hard to unwind when he feels like a zoo exhibit on display. And he can't even properly appreciate the flirty looks he gets because he hasn't slept with anyone other than Sam in almost...Jesus Christ, _13 years._ Which is just a super depressing thought on top of all the shit that comes with anything Sam-related and the fact that he only gets laid in his dreams.

He pushes it out of his head and imagines later when it'll just be him, his crew, Bobby and Rufus. He hasn't seen Rufus for almost five months now, and the grapevine says he's had a couple of close calls. Once with a couple of angels, and Dean really wants to hear that story.

"Dean? Dean Winchester?" a woman's voice asks. Dean turns towards her, his public smile in place. She looks nervous and frail, doesn't hold herself as if she's been trained, no gun callouses on her hands or weapons on her person. She'd once dyed her hair a lighter blonde than its natural shade and the roots are showing. She's definitely not a Hunter. Most likely someone whose life has been uprooted and hasn't yet found a new place to stick. "Wow, you...you look exactly like I remember. You haven't aged at all."

"Do I...know you?" Dean asks, wincing at how lame he sounds. Though she obviously does know him and he can't deny there's something familiar about her. He just can't quite place her. Whatever it is makes sweat break out over his neck and his fight-or-flight response kick in. His hand slides down to the holster on his hip; demons can't cross the boundary but they've used humans before. Tortured and manipulated their victims into doing their bidding, or found those sick fucks who'll work for them. In the early days a suicide bomber had walked into the middle of Thrieve and detonated. Ever since, there's been an unspoken arrangement: the psychics enjoying the protection of the traps take shifts to make sure it never happens again, constantly monitoring the 'flavor' of everyone's thoughts. It makes Dean's skin crawl but he can't begrudge them their paranoia-even with those measures Dean's on his guard. He knows, at some point, Mer will settle into the back of the Impala for a few of hours to do her part.

"You don't remember me," she says neutrally. Dean mentally swears; he's met enough of his past acquaintances to have a standard speech prepared, one both Mer and Missouri have given him hell for but it's better than the alternative. The woman grimaces and runs a hand through her hair. "I didn't really expect you to, but it still hurts, you know?"

"Sorry. A lot has happened over the past few years—"

"No, I don't—" she cuts herself off with a scowl. She squares her shoulders and looks at him directly. "I don't need your brush off speech."

"Uh. Okay. How can I help you?"

"I-I'm Karen. Karen Ivers?" And Dean feels the bottom of his world drop out.

-

Mer's enjoying some delicious venison when her father's distress registers. Rufus notices her stiffen and his hand strays to the gun holstered at his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" he asks, voice low. He scans the crowd for anything unusual, anyone who's walking stiffly or standing unnaturally still or just...wrong. Observes the way jackets fall, looking for any unnatural bunching or uneven hemlines. Weapons are worn openly here; anyone hiding a gun is asking for trouble.

"It's not that," Mer says, distracted, concentrating on her father. He's an odd mess of devastated, scared, and angry. A deep, old anger-the kind she usually associates with the dreams he doesn't know she knows about, but this is actually...older than that. And different. Less passionate. Or passionate in a different way it's hard to parse without really pushing into him and she doesn't do that. Rufus is talking to her, insistent enough to register and it's interrupting her concentration. "It's Dad. He's—" The tension ratchets up a notch and Mer's up and out of her seat in a moment, Rufus hot on her heels.

She rounds the corner and sees her father talking to a woman, shoulders stiff and hand on the butt of his gun. Mer skids to a halt and takes a moment. The woman's aura is filled with uncertainty. She hasn't had an easy time of it but she's a fighter, a survivor. She's exhausted-she didn't have an easy life Before and it certainly hasn't been easy After.

"Fuck."

"Mary?" Rufus asks, voice low and tight. The potential for violence slides over her senses, a familiar promise. "Problem?"

"Not one you can help with," Mer returns. Time to face the music.

Dean starts when Mer appears beside him. He hadn't felt her approach, too wrapped up in...oh, fuck.

"Hey Dad, what's up?" Mer asks casually, flicking a glance over...Karen. Her expression settles into one of aloof disdain and Dean winces. He hasn't seen that particular look for a long time; he associates it with the worst of her teenage years and Whit at her most stubborn.

"Um. Well..." Dean hedges, glancing between the two women.

"Oh, oh you're..." There's a reverence in Karen's voice that grates on Dean's nerves "You must be Mary." He wants to tell her she doesn't deserve to sound that way, she gave up that right eighteen years ago and never looked back. Most of all he doesn't want this to hurt Mer. He'll die for her, bleed for her in a heartbeat, but he doesn't know what he can do to make this easier.

"Yeah," Mer says, her tone unusually brusque, "that's me." She touches Dean's arm and he can feel her worry/love/family/support/honestly-you-asshole. Whatever happens here today, at least Dean knows that she's a Winchester through and through.

_Okay?_ filters through. He glances at her and gives a little smirk to buy time to compose himself; she's his last remaining point of stability and there are times when that's driven home so completely it hurts. He'll do anything in his power to protect her. But he can't protect her from this.

"Mer, this is...this is..." The words won't form, the parts of them stick awkwardly in his throat.

"I'm Karen Ivers," Karen jumps in. Eager. Filled with so much raw, desperate hope. "I'm. I'm...oh, God, I don't know how to say this." Dean knows exactly how she feels and hates her a bit for that commonality.

"My biological egg donor?" Mer suggests. Karen blinks at her, taken aback.

"Mer!" Dean goggles, a bubble of hysteria welling up in him. Mer's cool as a cucumber, looking at them with thinly veiled disdain.

"What?" she challenges, crossing her arms defensively.

Dean splutters, a thousand explanations, excuses, and recriminations tripping over his tongue. Karen looks like she's about to break down in the middle of their camp.

"I-I'm your mother," Karen says, emotion making her voice thick. She reaches out for Mer as if to hug her. Mer's lips twist into a sneer and she steps back, out of reach.

"My _mother's_ name was Whitney Steton," Mer says viciously, her tone icy and hard. Karen takes an involuntary step back, blinking. "She raised me. She _died_ for me. You are _not_ my mother." Mer spins around on her heel and stalks through the crowd. Rufus, hovering in the background, has a wordless conversation with Dean before turning to follow her, stopping to pull a protesting Trix out of his chair.

Karen presses a hand to her mouth, eyes filling with tears. She sniffs and Dean is suddenly, achingly furious. The void Whit left hasn't gone away, he lives with it every day. Karen's presences and Mer's turmoil rakes across raw nerves.

"She's not exactly wrong," Dean says, and even he knows it's a low blow but he doesn't care.

"I know." Dean watches as Karen pulls herself together piece by piece. She's so open about it. Dean feels like voyeur watching the various emotions rise to the surface and then melt away. "I know I, I wouldn't be here if the world wasn't the way it is. I can't say I never thought about you. And her. But..." But the world has changed and whatever advantage you can find you take. He can't fault her for that, even though he desperately wants to. Somewhere inside him is the stray thought that he may have just grown up.

"Come on," Dean sighs and leads her towards the picnic tables. There's a cup of coffee in front of him and a cup of tea for her as soon as they sit down. One thing about having so many psychics around is you barely have a moment to want for anything before someone's trying to give it to you. "You can't have her."

"I think she's old enough to make her own choices and she's made that very clear," Karen says wryly, trying on a smile. It looks painful.

"Right." Dean traces the chip on his mug, ragged ceramic catching on the pad of his finger.

"I didn't mean to-"

"Yes, you did."

"Okay," Karen breathes out a lungful of air. "Okay, yes. I did mean to. And I won't apologize for that, though I am sorry for the, the pain this is causing you both."

"What do you want?" Dean asks.

"Protection. Safety. I don't know much about magic or the supernatural, but I get the sense that shared blood can be powerful. Or dangerous." Dean feels the bottom drop out of his world again because he hadn't even thought-fuck, he needs a protection detail on Karen and a safe place where no one can get to her. Immediately. The only reason she's been safe so far is because Dean's never mentioned her name to anyone that he can remember-not dad, not Sam. But too many people witnessed their reunion to keep this under wraps for long. Can you break a parental bond?

"And...maybe to get to know Mary, somewhere down the line?" The tentative question snaps Dean out of his panic.

"She goes by Mer," Dean says, but that's about all he can manage without wanting to shoot something.

***

"Child, I know you are not sitting here sulking hard enough to put every psychic in a hundred miles in a bad mood too." Missouri settles herself on the ground beside Mary even though she knows she'll pay for it later.

"I don't want to talk about it," Mer says, clipped and pointed.

"All right then, let's talk about the little crush you have on Castiel." Missouri doesn't bother to hide her grin when Mer turns to her, wide eyed and spluttering.

"What are-I do NOT. You're insane. That's insane. You-oh my god. He's an _angel."_

"Mmmhmm." Mer stares out at nothing and simmers in her own mortification. Jesus. This is just-Jesus. She runs through about a million different responses, everything from denial (which isn't going to work because she is clearly completely transparant) to trying to traumatize Missouri with talk of their future unborn angelic babies (which, judging by the snort of laughter, would not have the same effect it would have on her Dad, i.e., complete and utter horror).

"Please don't tell my dad," she settles on, resigned.

"Girl please, your father is the king of unadvised crushes," Missouri says. Mer gives her a look. "No, we won't tell Dean. Just as long as you know that your crush is going to stay just that."

"I read somewhere that teenagers get crushes on terminally unavailable people because it's a safe way to explore their blossoming sexuality without any real repercussions," Mer recites. Viv had shared that bit of wisdom from Cosmo at a sleepover but Mer shuts that line of thought down pretty quickly. She tries not to think of her friends, who may not be well. Or alive.

"Uh huh. We'll go with that." Missouri waits expectantly and Mer stares resolutely forward. Missouri finds it amusing that any of the Winchesters think they can outplay her. "He does have some very pretty eyes-"

"Ohmigod, fine. She showed up here because she wants Dad to save her from the big scary world, he's going to do it, she's not my mom and I'm dealing."

"You sure are," Missouri mutters under her breath.

"What do you want me to say?" Mer explodes. There so much rage and hurt and loss boiling in her. "That I hate her? That I want her dead and Whit alive and that makes me a horrible person but I _don't care_ because I just, I just want my family back and-" Missouri pulls her into a hug and rocks a bit. Mer's fingers tangle in her shirt, twisting the fabric. She gasps for air, though Missouri doesn't think she's actually crying; she's caught too firmly between loss and rage to know what she wants to do.

Missouri projects serenity and acceptance and hums a little tuneless song as Mer calms, her breath slowing, though she's still rigid with tension. She eventually pulls away and there are miles in every inch she puts between them.

"Sorry," Mer says, the word wavering in the air.

"Don't you dare apologize to me, Mary Winchester," Missouri scolds, "or I'll take my spoon to you." It pulls a weak laugh out of Mer, busy putting her defenses back in place. Missouri can practically visualize the boxes Mer uses to compartmentalize, the lids snapping shut, and her heart breaks a little. Practically, she knows it's necessary for Mer to survive. For any of them to survive, really. Doesn't make it right.

"Now you listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once." She waits for Mer's nod before continuing, "Bad things happen. And when bad things happen, we all wish that our loved ones never got hurt, or killed, or suffer. We all feel relief when we find out the person we love hasn't been hurt, even as we feel bad that someone else was. But there's always that part of us that's thankful it wasn't your dad or Bobby or anyone else you know. That doesn't make us bad people-that makes us human."

"That's kind of a shitty part of being human," Mer says. Missouri purses her lips and shrugs.

"Humans are capable of contradictory thoughts that are equally true and valid and I swear if you say something flip right now I'm going straight to your father." Mer sullenly shuts her mouth. "Good." Missouri settles in to wait. She's found the best way to deal with Winchesters is to wait them out. She could push, but she won't about this. Neither Mer or Dean have really had time to deal with their losses. They're usually not unbalanced enough to let anything show through but now that Mer's wall is cracked, Missouri is willing to be patient a little longer. She takes the time to mark where the rest of their extended family is.

Dean and the woman are still having their heart-to-heart. Rufus has rounded up Danny and Trix; they're tossing knives over to the side, close enough to be there in moments if Missouri calls them over. Rufus must feel her regard because he turns and catches her eye. He nods at Mer and Missouri shrugs. She stretches out, letting her consciousness brush against the rest of Five, just tasting the flavor of the group.

"I never wanted to meet her," Mer says. She's closed her eyes. Looks both incredibly young and far older than she should. "I asked Dad once how he got me. He thought I was asking about her, but that wasn't it. I just...wanted to know the story."

"You were never curious?" Missouri seriously doubts that; Mer's nature is too precocious for her to let something like this pass.

"Well, yeah. A little. But it wasn't..." Mer shakes her head glares out at the world at large. "There wasn't anything missing once, once Atta came. Everything fit, we were good. Happy. And she was just this idea, you know? People talked about having a mom and it never occurred to me they might not mean Whit." And now that Whit's gone it's even more of an affront. "Can I just pretend she doesn't exist?"

Missouri laughs in spite of the situation. "You could try. But no matter what you call her, you share blood. So unless you want to wake up blood-bound to some demon I wouldn't suggest it."

"Oh god. Do you think Dad's realized..."

"Since you're out of his sight, no." They're surrounded by too many paranoid hunters for someone not to mention all the things one can do with mother's blood.

"Now come on, we have to figure out what to do with that woman." Mer gives her an incredulous, startled look. "What? I might feel for her, but that doesn't mean I have to _like _her."

***

"You can't take her on the road, she's a liability," Rufus says.

"She's a liability anyways," Bobby argues. He hasn't stopped scowling since Dean broke the news. "Do you know how much damage she can do if the demons catch wind of this? What they can do to Mer? And god help you both if someone gets a hold of a part of you, too. We can't just leave her anywhere, and I don't trust anyone to protect her." That causes a new flurry of yelling and bruised egos with Bobby trying to play referee and just making things worse.

"Dad." The room falls silent. Mer, who had not be invited to this meeting, stands just inside the door, hands nonchalantly tucked into the pockets of her jeans. "Can I talk to you outside?" Dean glances at everyone present and clears his throat.

"Sure. Of course. We'll just, uh, be right back." The silence is oppressive as they slip outside.

"We have to take her to Clinch," Mer says calmly.

"The town that time forgot?" Dean asks in disbelief.

"That would be why. You felt the wards. She'll be safe there, we're the only ones that really know about it and there's no reason for anyone else to go with us. Plus, we're headed back in that general direction to take Missouri and Kai to Firewall."

"Kai's coming? Since when?" Kai is one of the strongest psychics in North America and freaks Dean out like nobody's business.

"Dad. Focus," Mer snaps, rolling her eyes.

"We are not naming it Firewall. You are not allowed to name things until you're thirty," Dean says.

_"Dad."_ Dean sighs. So much for deflecting.

It's...not a bad idea, per se. He would just really rather not set foot back in that town. And no one's offered up a better idea than driving into the middle of the Badwater Salt Flats and leaving her there. (Even if it has the added bonus of being on the other side of the country from Sam.)

"It's a good idea," he admits grudgingly.

"It's our only idea," Mer counters.

"We'll have to drive with her."

"I'll charge my iPod," she says dryly.

"All right," Dean agrees with a sigh. He can't help but think this is going to come back to haunt him.


	33. Book Three: Chapter 5

They stay at Five for almost a week waiting for Ellen to catch up with them. It's not particularly restful as there's a lot to coordinate; they've decided to set up a camp in-God help him, the name has stuck like glue-Firewall. They've lost psychics and witches and other allies with "extrasensory trauma" and Missouri is of the opinion Firewall could be a safe haven for them. A place that they can go and hide until their minds stabilize and they can heal. If nothing else, it could be a prison to keep the dangerous ones contained.

For Dean, all he cares about it that Karen's vulnerable and snatchable, and _that_ means Mer's in danger. Neither of them are allowed to go anywhere without an escort.

"You worry overmuch." Dean nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Jesus. Kai." Dean steps back because Kai is not great with personal space. Or warning people. Or having a discernible gender or preferred gender pronoun. (Kai, Missouri, Mer, and both members of Kai's creepy entourage have tried to explain it to him. Kai "slides." Sometimes everyone's using 'he,' sometimes 'she,' sometimes weird words that sound like she or her or ze but aren't. They can all see whatever it is that makes Kai...Kai. He just doesn't get it.) "You're here."

"Perhaps," Kai says in a tone of voice that implies deep philosophical contemplation. Dean really, really doesn't want to know. The last time he'd asked for clarification about something, Kai's answer had fucked with his head for _months._

"So you're going to Firewall with us." Dean searches for an escape route but Kai has pretty much blocked him in this tiny little alcove between two RVs.

"I believe I will be of value there."

"Great." Dean shifts uncomfortably but Kai show sno sign of leaving. "So, uh, where are your...companions?" Kai always travels with a guy and a girl whose names Dean can never remember.

"Mike and Lauren," Kai supplies helpfully and Dean scowls. Years of living with Mer have taught him to keep a tight reign on his thoughts but Kai always seems to see through him.

"Right. Them." Kai has some sort of connection to them that goes beyond dating or fucking or whatever. The one time he'd asked Mer he'd _felt_ the ache in her chest when she'd compared them to him and Sam and Whit.

"Do you dream, Dean?" The change of topic is underhanded and dirty. Dean knows in the few unguarded moments Kai had had to sneak up on him he gave up too much, let dangerous things through the cracks.

"That is none of your business," Dean says. He shifts into an aggressive stance instinctively, ready to move the moment Kai gives him an opening.

"It is all of our business," Kai says, even and implacable. "You no longer dream without him, do you?" Dean steps into Kai's space.

"Stay out. Of my head." He sees a flicker of fear in Kai's eyes, subtle but present. The hunter in him, the killer he's been trained to be since he was four, wants to press his advantage. Draw blood.

"I am not in your head," Kai says. "I can see him, the shadow upon your soul. He asks and you struggle not to answer." And just like that the balance shifts. Dean leans back but Kai moves with him. "You _cannot_ acquiesce." Dean's heard enough prophecy over the years to recognize them. There's a certain resonance to them, a truth you feel bone deep.

"I won't."

"So you allege."

"So I _say."_

"Your sayings and your doings are antipodal."

"That's great, Akeelah, spell me another one of your ten dollar words."

"I shall. With _diminutive_ lexemes so that you might comprehend. If you do not choose, you will lose everything. Those are _my_ dreams."

Dean doesn't believe Kai. Not because he doubts Kai's abilities but because there's no choice for him to make. He will never stop fighting for Sam because he knows, too the very core of himself, that while his brother is still alive he can be saved. And he will never do anything to hurt his daughter. That is the only way he knows how to live.

Kai steps back, mouth twisted in discontent. The abrupt withdrawal confuses Dean for a moment until he feels Mer's approach. He moves away as well, as if distance will diffuse the tension between them.

"Hey, what's going on?" Mer sidles up to Dean as if she's unaware of the tension, expression crafted into blandness. Lauren and Mike trail after her, just as casual. They flank Kai, one on either side like sentinels.

"Kai is going to Firewall with us," Dean says. Mer looks at him briefly, unimpressed with his deflection. Kai's lip curls up in anger.

"And Dean is going to walk a lonely road to Hell." Dean's jaw flexes and locks, teeth grinding and muscles pulsing.

"As long as I take you with me."

"You will take the world with you!"

"Then I won't be alone, will I?"

"Dad." It's like the bell in a wrestling arena. Kai and Dean retreat to their metaphorical corners. He catches the tail end of some exchange Kai and Mer have been having well over his less-psychic head. Kai makes a disgusted sound and Mer glares. A much more polite impasse than the one with Dean, though not by much.

"The only thing worse than being blinded by pride is having sight but no vision." Kai spins around and walks away, Mike and Lauren matching stride for stride, the three of them moving in sync through the settlement. That just leaves Dean and Mer and a wealth of things unsaid between them.

"We're ready to go when you are," Mer says, when the silence grows too thick.

"Mer..." Faced with Mer's skeptical expectancy, Dean falters. "I... It's not..."

"I like it better when we don't talk about it," Mer says. "You don't have to lie that way."

***

Dean stares at the bed, rumpled and messy. He knows this bed. Not just the bed, but every fold of the cloth, the haphazard way the pillows sit on the mattress, the shirt he can see peaking out from underneath the bedclothes. It's been twenty years and he still feels overwhelming guilt.

He watches, heart in his throat, when a younger version of himself stumbles in the room, drunk off his ass and using Sam as a human walking stick. Fuck, he doesn't want to see this. It always comes back, like an old penny. Or that damned cat. He tries to ignore it whenever he can but he can't outrun himself. This is his penance, the one action he knows he can never atone for.

They're so young. Sam's eighteen (_Mer's age,_ his treacherous mind whispers) and he's barely twenty-two. And stupid, so stupid. Drunk and horny and he knew better than to come home like that. One or the other, but never both.

He watches Sam-gangly and awkward from a growth spurt that made him of a height with his big brother, so proud about that fact-maneuver them towards the bed. He trips and they fall on the bed together, and Dean remembers this too, how nice it felt to feel Sam's heat under his cheek, how he ignored Sam's efforts to push him off, threw a leg over Sammy's hips and heard him gasp and his only thought was _I want that._

He no sooner thinks the words than they're kissing; he remembers the wet slide of Sam's lips and tongue and teeth and Dean can't breathe for it. His world spins and he tries to pull away but he can't leave. He's wanted for so long and not even air can make him really pull away. So he pushes closer, deeper, holds Sam down and takes and takes and takes.

After that it's a blur, just sense-memory and scraps of clothes. Moans and groans, and Dean hears himself start to beg Sam, sees Sam pause then give in because Sam gave him everything. Now, he can see Sam's hesitancy, how unsure he was.

Dean, standing at the foot of the bed, forces himself to relive his wretched drunken mistake. He can't regret where they ended up but this should never have happened.

"And what are we feeling guilty about today?" Sam wraps his arms around Dean's hips and rests his head on Dean's shoulder. Dean stiffens but Sam doesn't let go.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sam sighs, a familiar and well worn kind of exasperation tinged with so much of their history.

"Of course you don't." Sam used to get mad at these transparent lies Dean insists on telling. He nuzzles the skin behind Dean's ear, feels the tension start to shift to something more charged and decides today. Now. They're going to talk about _that night_ and Dean doesn't get to wiggle out of it. "You were so mad the next day."

_How can you touch me?_ Dean wonders. Sam pointedly slips a hand underneath the hem of Dean's shirt, right over his stomach.

"I was drunk," Dean confesses. Like that's an excuse.

"I noticed," Sam says dryly, a laugh gusting against Dean's ear. Dean tries to jerk out of Sam's hold but Sam just pulls him closer. The anger simmering below the surface continues to boil, Sam's words only stoking the fires. "What happened?" Dean shrugs and watches his younger self pin Sam's arms above his head. Sam strains against it, eyes so wide. Dean hates himself for the tingling arousal that moves through him at the sight.

"You have to ask?" Dean asks. Sam's forgiven him but that doesn't absolve him.

"Yes."

"You left." Dean's not answering the question Sam asked, but it suffices as an answer regardless because Sam _always leaves._ Even where he's there, in the same room, he might as well be a thousand miles away.

"You looked at me like I destroyed your world," Sam whispers. "You _felt_ like I'd destroyed your world." Young Sam gasps and shouts, bucking underneath Dean, and Sam's hand finds the bulge between Dean's legs. He closes his eyes and shudders, in a damning mix of revulsion and want. He shakes his head, as if he has any chance of denying any of this.

"I did." There's a moment where everything pauses-Sam, the memories on the bed, Dean's heart. Just a moment of stillness before Sam spins Dean around and presses him against the wall, blocks his view of the bed. Be he can still hear and every moan is a recrimination.

"Is this your festival of atonement?" Sam asks, so angry. Dean accepts it, loves it, because he deserves it and so much more. And he's angry too, so angry about so many things. He shoves Sam back, hard enough to make him stumble.

"I never should have touched you." Not then, not ever again, especially not now that Sam has gone darkside but Dean's pretty much come to terms with the fact that he'll take Sam however he can get him. The first time, though? Can never be right.

Sam jerks Dean's head back, thick fingers pulling at his hair, and claims Dean's mouth in a dominating kiss. Dean submits, lets Sam do what he will, before pushing back. Sam runs his nails over Dean's chest, leaving marks that'll carry over in the waking world. Dean grunts when he's pushed back into the wall.

"I wanted you," Sam says. He mouths along Dean's neck, knows how sensitive it is. He knows exactly how to touch to bring Dean right to the edge and leave him there. "Every time you came home smelling like sex I'd get jealous. I'd wonder what she had that I didn't, especially after that night. I thought it was _special. _That it meant you felt everything I did. I burned for you and then you fucked anything that wasn't me. You stared at my back but refused to look at me when I was right there in front of you. _You _left _me,_ Dean."

He makes Dean come and the cry wrenched from him isn't totally pleasure, but not all pain either. He's ruthless in coaxing every last second of orgasm from Dean's body. If this is going to be an atonement Dean can at least apologize for the right reasons.

He waits for those pretty green eyes to flutter open.

"I could have accepted you fucking around. Us never fucking around again. The only thing I didn't want was for you to cut me out." Sam steps back and flicks his wrist, gesturing to the two figures clenched on the bed. "I will not let you leave me again." Sam keeps backing up and Dean reaches out, blind with panic. He wasn't the only one who left.

_Promise,_ Dean thinks, surging forward, _promise, promise, promise._

_I do._ They kiss and Dean feels something strengthen between them, intangible but present. His Sammy, his everything. He feels Sam smile into the kiss just before it breaks. Sam cups his face and runs his thumbs over Dean's cheeks.

"Almost," he says, and then pushes Dean back. Dean falls on to the bed, between two bodies moving in tandem, watches his guilt shatter around him and wakes up feeling both relief and dread.

Just what, exactly, had Sam promised?

***

The trip to Clinch is, in a word, strained. Karen spends the whole trip trying to engage Mer, who either ignores her or answers in monosyllabic grunts. She looks more and more strained with every failed conversation, but Dean can't bring himself to say much of anything. The ground under his feet is unsteady enough without Karen making things worse.

George and Gran Emer are already waiting at the edge of the wards when they arrive, their teenage doppelgängers hovering in the background. Karen has a death grip on her bag, eyes taking in the hole-filled road and crumbling asphalt. Mer parks herself against a tree, arms crossed and feet planted firmly on the ground. She's spoiling for a fight.

"I don't know if I can do this," Karen says in a rush. A horse whinnies in the distance and she starts. "It's too much."

"It's, uh, probably going to be weird but you should be okay," Dean says, knowing he's missing reassuring by a mile. That was never his strength. "These people can protect you. Give you a place to stay, everything you need. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"It's...I don't know..." Dean grits his teeth because they'd agreed. Yeah, he'd sensed Karen's reservations and maybe his hope that the drive there would magically impress on her the importance of this decision was a long shot, but this had been the agreement and if he has to, he'll order her to stay. But that doesn't mean she'll _listen._

Mer sighs, sounding very put upon, and stalks up to Karen.

"I need you to do this." Mer's irritation is a palpable, living thing. "We are fighting a war and you could get me killed, or turned into a mindless slave, or some horrifying combination of both, which means he is going to do something stupid and get killed and that would mean the end of _everything._ So I need you to stay here and be safe because this is the only option we have. I am asking you to do this for me." Karen looks startled, which is understandable as that is, by far, the most Mer's said to her since they met. Karen looks at Mer with wide, round eyes, filled with unshed tears. Mer remains uncompromising and firm, though Dean can read the desire to run clear as day. They stare, locked in their stand off, for several seconds before Karend shakes her head and then straightens.

"Yes." She carries herself with conviction, no longer shrinking away. "I'm sorry, I knew that. It's just-of course I'll stay." Mer nods and slips back into the sullen teenager but Karen stops her with a gentle hand on her arm. "Please be careful. Stay safe? Well, as safe as you can." Dean catches the momentary flicker of surprise only because he taught her how to hide them, and knows her well enough to see the tiny cracks that have already formed in her defenses.

"Yeah." Mer clears her throat and draws away from Karen's touch. "Yeah, of course." She beats a hasty retreat and makes it a point not to look at them again.

"So, uh," Dean says, fidgeting. He leans so he can see around Karen to where George and Gran Emer watch them closely. "Thank you for this."

"Don't you think nothin' on it," George says.

"New people are a joy to this town," Gran Emer agrees. "Now, come here, girl, and let young Senia give you the grand walkabout." Senia takes Karen's hand and leads her up the path, towards the town. Karen spares one last, longing glance at Mer. She disappears around the bend and Dean heaves a sigh of relief. At least that's over.

"Thank you," Dean says to George and Gran Emer. "And hey, I guess you were right about seeing me again." The not-joke falls flat and Dean feels like someone walked over his grave.

"You're welcome here any time, Dean Winchester," Gran Emer says. There's a ring of formality to her words that doesn't sit well with Dean.

"Thank you. I'll be sure to remember that." Dean shuffles his feet, eager to get out of here. "So, uh, thanks again and I'll, uh...see you next time."

"Yes," Gran Emer says.

"Don't forget-"

"To go left, thank you, George," Dean says with a wave, and heads down the path. It's a silent walk back to the Impala. The tension stays with Dean even after George and Gran Emer have disappeared. Mer makes him stop right at the edge of the wards. She kneels on the ground, one knee on each side of the wardline so that she straddles the divide.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks.

"Something Kai taught me," Mer murmurs. It just looks like Mer's kneeling in the middle of a dilapidated road with her eyes closed. Dean has no idea what she's doing, or if she's even really doing anything-Dean wouldn't be surprised to find out she's fucking with him half the time. He straightens and scans the road. It's practically unpassable, large chunks of it missing, slabs of concrete bulging where roots have pushed them up. The car would never have made it over such rough terrain and Dean has a brief panic attack about his baby's suspension and the state of her-

"Dad." A hand lands on his shoulder. Dean snaps out of his spiraling thoughts and focuses on Mer. "It's a suggestion. You see the road as worse than it is-the flaws that are already there just seem...more. The Impala is fine. The _road_ is fine."

Dean looks at the road again, keeping his emotions in check. He finds himself getting absorbed in the damage, a pothole suddenly looking like the Grand Canyon, a small plant growing from a crack turning into a tree. He turns away when his mind gets too caught up in the dissonance of what he knows and what he thinks he sees.

"That's some trick," Dean says, rubbing his eyes. Mer steps away from him once again stony and closed off.

"Yeah, well. Kai's got a mean streak," Mer says. Dean grunts; he's well acquainted with Kai's mean streak. "Come on, they're waiting for us at Firewall."

***

It's much easier to get to the glade now that someone's hacked a rough path through the forest. The line of demarcation is spray painted orange and hunters are busy cutting down surrounding trees, giving the psychics more room to move without accidentally crossing into the glade.

"It's about time you two made it." Ellen is sweaty, hair wild and dirt smudged on her face.

"You're looking...fresh," Dean says and gets punched in the shoulder.

"You try cutting up trees with a handsaw and see how fresh you look."

"We're saving the chainsaws for the bigger trees?" Dean guesses. Oil's a precious commodity these days, no telling when shipments will make it through. Helps that a lot of people aren't driving anymore.

"Yeah. Missouri and Kai have cooked up some scheme for this place-some sort of Psychic Hospital. They want log cabins."

"Can this place support that?" Dean asks in lieu of _when did our lives become a bad soap opera?_

"Well, we found a stream not too far away. It'll do for water until we can get a cistern in here. Kai's put out the word so there are more people headed this way with supplies; we set Danny and Trix to widening the path up, all the spare wood's being stripped and cured for building. It'll take a while, but it's doable." It's a big undertaking but Missouri and Kai are more than up for the task.

"How are we going to demon-proof it with the..." Dean winces and bites the bullet, "firewall around it."

"Ah," Ellen says, grinning smugly. "I'll let Ash demonstrate. ASH! GETCHER RATS OVER HERE!" Ash comes bounding up to them, a large plastic cage with some big ass, mean looking rats in hand.

"Heeeey! Dean! Alright alright alright."

"Ash, show the man your party trick," Ellen orders with fond exasperation.

"Oh, okay, so this is rad. Seriously, it's gonna blow your mind, man."

"Ash. These are not just rats." Mer pokes at the cage and recoils when the creatures throw themselves as her finger. Their pointed teeth leave scratches on the glass. She watches sin horror as one tooth cracks under the pressure but the rat doesn't stop.

"They're demonic rats," Ash says with a sociopathic kind of glee. Dean sees all his own reservations mirrored in Mer's expression. He shrugs helplessly, also at a loss.

"Okay, Willard, why do you have them?" Dean asks, face twisting in disgust.

"Watch." Dean holds up the cage and steps across the barrier. The rat without the tooth starts screaming in pain, a terrible sound that means every hunter in the area focuses on them in an instant. The other rats stop moving, emitting high-pitched sounds of fear and panic. One of them tries to walk but its movements are wobbly and uncertain. Coltish.

"Are they..." Mer hovers just short of the barrier line, leaning in to look at them more closely.

"Trapped!" Ash says. "They become one with the host." Ash does a ridiculous samurai-style bow, jostling the cage and sending the rats into a greater frenzy.

"So any demons that cross would essentially be...human," Mer says, a slow smile growing.

"Yep. Opens up a world of possibilities," Ellen says, grinning back.

"Now we just have to be able to cross it without puking our guts out," Dean says. He doesn't want to rain on their parade but if they have to go through what he and Mer did the first time...

"Missouri hasn't had any problems," Ellen says with a shrug. Dean and Mer exchange a skeptical look and go off to find Missouri.

-

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you. Too much interference." Missouri smiles beatifically.

"It's a mental barrier," Mer says. "It doesn't affect your hearing."

"What?"

"Missouri." Dean does not have time for this shit.

"Yes, Dean?" He sighs, thoroughly annoyed with the turn this conversation has taken. "If you want to talk to me, you have to come in here."

"I am not crossing that barrier," Mer says. She folds her arms over her chest and plants her feet on the ground. Missouri can tell them all she wants about habituation, taking it slow or whatever, but Mer remembers the abrupt cessation of awareness and is in no rush to repeat the experience.

"Fear paralyzes." Kai materializes from the trees wearing a construction tool belt and a hardhat. Dean keeps his attention focused on Missouri. "Curiosity empowers."

"This is an access point. It's possible to come in through here without getting ripped apart, just take it slow," Missouri says.

Kai steps forward, just inside the barrier and pauses. Mer counts to five before Kai steps forward again, then three, then two. With each successive step Kai's aura seems to shrink in on itself until it's just a faint glow instead of the expansive, inquisitive extension of Kai she's used to. If that's what happens to them when they cross over it's no wonder it hurts so much. But the change had been gradual and if it's just about gradual habituation...

"See?" Kai calls. "Simple. One step at a time. Only fools rush."

"Bullshit," Dean mutters under his breath.

"I've thought many things of your family over the years," Missouri says, "but I never took you for cowards." Both Mer and Dean straighten, predictable to a fault. The gauntlet has been thrown and one of them will step up, if not both.

"It's, uh, gradient? Like, it gets worse the farther in you go. Kai's aura compressed more with each step, so...in theory if we take it slow it shouldn't be as disorienting." Mer shrugs. Dean looks at the spray-painted border suspiciously.

"No." He's happy that Missouri and Kai are building their little psychic hospital or whatever, but it's not for him. It's too dangerous. He remembers, vividly, what it felt like to cross over and cross back. Holding Mer while she shook. The very thought of crossing the barrier makes him break out into a cold sweat.

And every time he thinks of it, Sam's quiet desperation the night after he'd crossed comes back to haunt him. The wildness, the vulnerability. He could concoct some justification for what would happen-Sam might take his fury out on an entire city leaving destruction in his wake, innocents would suffer-but the reality is that _Sam_ would suffer.

Dean glances at Mer and flinches. She knows. He sees the set of her jaw, the tension in the muscles of her neck and the tightness around her eyes, but all of that is negligible compared to the mental block between them. It _stings_ when Dean brushes against it, like an electrified fence.

Mer holds his gaze while she squares her shoulders and steps sideways, straddling the line of demarcation. He can tell she's nervous and he wants so much to reassure her but Dean finds himself rooted to the spot, unable to say or do anything. Not that he has any clue what he can do.

Swallowing nervously she takes her first full step just over the line. She sways a little and Dean reaches for her but pulls back short of the boundary. He watches her closely as she takes her next step, sees the way she tenses as her abilities are stripped away and then relaxes into it when she gets used to it. The worst part is he thinks she's waiting to see what he'll do-testing him and he knows he's failing.

She takes a second step and pauses, unmoving.

"Mer?" Missouri calls. Mer starts and shakes her head.

"I'm good," she says, the words dry. With one last piercing look at Dean she takes another step into the glade. Then another. With every step that takes her farther from him Dean tenses until he's positive his shoulders are around his ears.

"Well?" Missouri asks and Dean has to work to hear them. Mer stretches each muscle group, testing them. Her balance is off and judging by her diminished flexibility, she's very tense.

"Feels weird," she says. She smirks at Missouri and Kai, shrugging off her discomfort. "But manageable." Missouri extends her hand and Mer takes it. She gives a soft 'oh' when they make contact. "That's...stronger than normal."

"Mmhmm. The whole senses getting sharper when you take one away theory. Can't repress the skin-to-skin." Mer reluctantly takes her hand away from Missouri's though she casts a longing look its way.

"And you, Dean?" Kai asks coolly. "Shall you test its quelling powers? Perhaps a doze in the afternoon sun?"

"I had enough last time," Dean evades. "Gives me the shivers just seeing you three in there."

Mer's disappointment follows him through the rest of the day, even though he can't feel her.

***

Mer saws wood with single minded focus, losing herself in the simple back-and-forth motion and burn of overworked muscles.

"Can you set things on fire with your brain?" Jo settles on a stack of wood, whittling down a stake with her knife. Mer pauses and considers the question.

"I've never actually tried." She starts thinking about fire, warmth and heat and excited molecules, dredging up everything she remembers about combustion from school and-

"Yeah, let's not test that out right now, okay?" Jo suggests. She tries to remember if that dark spot was there before Mer started staring at it. Mer smirks at her and starts sawing again, using a bit of telekinesis to move the board forward every time she finished a section; it's her weakest power, and she gets to exercise it and make her chores go faster. "You know, your dad-"

"Let's not do this," Mer says, giving a vicious push that cracks the wood and leaves jagged, unusable edges. Mer grabs the useless section and throws it into the woods as hard as she can, her entire body dedicated to this one act of violence.

Jo continues, undaunted, "You're his kid. That's not something you can stop. Trust me-it never stops." She waves in the general direction of her mom, currently discussing farming practices with a guy they only know as Johnny Appleseed.

"At least she treats you like a _hunter,"_ Mer grumbles.

"Ha, right. You think she double checks Ichi's guns, or reminds him to double knot his shoe laces, or steps in front of him when things get dicey?" Jo shakes her head and yearns for a cigarette. It's her secret bad habit, one she doesn't indulge in a lot, but she wants one desperately right now. "It never stops, but you do get older. And don't give me that look, I know it sounds stupid but I'm telling you the truth."

"Telling me I just have to grow up doesn't really help."

"Yeah, well. Sucks to be you." Jo has no sympathy for her; she survived her teenage years, and Mary will too. Or at least, it won't be what kills her. Which is a disturbing though Jo shouldn't have so easily. Mer knocks the board off the sawhorse and decides to do something else.

"You know, he might not be able to stop it, but he could sure as hell refuse to act on it," Mer says bitterly. "People do it all the time. This is like an addiction."

"I thought-I'm talking about the high school. What are you talking about?" Mer ignores her, moving on to splitting logs because the violence appeals to her right now. Jo consciously refrains from grinding her teeth together. Dentists are expensive and hard to find these days. Which means keeping things in is even more of a health hazards these days so, "What the hell is your problem?"

Mer rests her axe on the ground and massages her hands.

"I don't know," Mer sighs. She drops down beside Jo. "Everything's a complete mess."

"Well, allow me to give you a very adult answer: that's life. Apocalypse or no, it's all a giant clusterfuck that everyone's trying to figure out. It's not like anyone has a giant book of answers," Jo says. Mer flinches and presses the heel of her hand to her head, a migraine abruptly taking residence over her eyes. She has the strangest sense of remembering something she never knew. The pain makes her nauseated and she sucks in a breath. "Mer? You okay?" Jo shakes her by the shoulder and Mer starts, her eyes slow in focusing.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." She smiles crookedly, still looking off-kilter. The pain starts to fade, leaving her shaken and a little weak. Jo watches her with worry so Mer plasters on a smile. "You know, for a second there, I thought I did have a book with all the answers." Jo rolls her eyes and socks Mer in the shoulder, though the blank look in Mer's eyes stays with her. That wasn't nothing.

"We'll figure it out though, right?" Mer asks.

"Yeah," she says, pulling her into a one-armed hug. "We'll do fine."

There's a commotion from the other side of the staging area, and then the familiar sounds of Trix being threatened by an irate mother, the letch. They both head over to save him and Mer's strange little interlude fades from memory.

***

Dean slips away from the group when the sun sets too low for them to work. They've managed to erect a couple of frames and started digging the foundations of the more robust structures. He takes stock of his people. Mer, Danny and Trix are baiting Ash into telling increasingly implausible stories, many of which Dean's pretty sure involve chemical aid. Bobby and a few of the others are already sacked out, enjoying the relative safety of this place while they can. Missouri, Kai, and a few other psychics who filtered in are having some sort of experimental mind-orgy at the edge of the barrier. Assured of everyone's safety Dean wanders away from the camp; not too far, but far enough to have the illusion of solitude.

He stretches, spine cracking, and lets out a deep breath as he settles on a decaying log, stretching his legs out in front of him. The weariness he fights to keep at bay starts creeping in while his defenses are lowered. A dull throb starts in behind his eyes. He needs to sleep-he always needs to sleep-but that's a venture fraught with danger these days.

"You need a break." A bottle of home brew appears in his line of sight. Dean accepts it and Ellen settles on the log beside him, sticks a few more into the loam for later. He takes a long pull from the...

"What the fuck, Ellen?" he rasps. Shit's eating away at his esophagus and from the way it's settling in his belly, warm and effusive, it's going to kick like a bitch. Ellen grins at him and takes a slug, swallows it without any hardship. He drinks more gingerly next time. "We just spent a week in Five. Can't afford to waste any time."

"That was not relaxing, Dean. You spent half the time networking and the other half organizing supply runs and hunts. And the Apocalypse isn't going anywhere. It's a hard truth, but you know as well as me this thing is chugging along at its own pace and, unless you've stumbled on something big, what we're doing is making a small wave in a very large ocean." Dean scoffs but she's right. He counts every person they save as a victory but there are over 666 Seals and only 66 need to break. There are more than 66 outside of the US, beyond his reach.

Ellen lays a hand on his shoulder. The warmth bleeds through his shirt. "Stay here. No hunting, just...build a couple of cabins. Work with your hands. Don't fire a gun. Talk to your kid and spend some time with her. Get some real sleep."

Dean ignores the last part. He doesn't think Ellen means anything by it-not like Kai-other than his sleeping habits are shitty enough to attract attention.

"She's barely ever out of my sight," Dean points out.

"Yeah, so, let her out of your sight. Send her to haul wood without you. Or don't send her at all, let her make her own decisions."

"You think letting her choose between 'haul wood up a mountain' or 'stack wood into a house shape' is going to solve all our problems?" Dean asks.

"No. I think treating her like you do Trix or Danny is going to solve some of your problems, short-term. I think the goal here is to try and avoid another High School Incident." Dean scowls and his grip on the bottle tightens. He's been ignoring the High School Incident since it happened. With the loss of Elkins and everything else that's happened in the interim he hasn't had the time to dwell on it. Postmortems of hunts are a luxury they can't afford any more and talking to Mer is something of a minefield.

They drink in silence for a while. The stars are bright and vivid against the night sky. Dean idly picks out a few constellations. Whit had loved the sky. She used to take Mer out and tell her the stories behind all the mythological figures.

"How did you survive Jo?" Dean asks. Ellen snorts and starts shaking and Dean realizes that she's _laughing._ Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but Ellen's near-silent laughter is infectious and soon enough he's grinning around his beer bottle. Ellen manages to reign in her mirth, but not before she's given her stomach muscles one hell of a workout.

"Dean," she says, getting back to the question at hand, "what the hell makes you think I have? Jo scares the shit out of me every single day." Dean thumbs at his beer bottle and she knows if it were a brand with a label he'd be peeling it off.

"It never goes away, does it?" He sounds resigned.

"They never tell you that when you sign up for kids you'll worry every second for the rest of your life." It's the biggest scam on the planet, parenthood.

"So what do I do?"

"Take a few days and pretend you've got a normal life for a while." Dean shakes his head. 'Normal' had never been his shtick. Ironically, he's probably the Winchester who'd come closest those years with him and Whit and Mer.

But taking a break couldn't hurt. There are other hunters out there to take up the slack and building that needs to be done here. Uncomplicated things away from the breakneck pace they've set towards the End Times.

His cellphone chimes. The mechanical sound rings loud and unnatural amongst the crickets and creatures of the woods. The one surefire way the angels have to contact them; no matter where-or when-they are, they can still get a text through. Ellen catches his hand before he can reach into his pocket.

"Don't read it. Don't look at it, don't think about it, don't even acknowledge it's there." She tugs on his wrist, forces him to look at her. "Stay here. Just for a few days." His phone chimes again.

The text is from Anna. There's a Seal breaking in Connecticut, something involving an artifact that might come in useful later on.

"I can't."


	34. Book Three: Chapter 6

They haul ass to Hawleyville, Connecticut, just off I-84. It takes them about 19 hours straight through, switching between three drivers. (Trix still hasn't proven himself Impala-competent and seems pretty content with the set up, lazy bastard.)

Anael eventually provides them with coordinates that lead them to an aging suburban neighborhood. The area still has power though there aren't any people hanging around at two in the morning. The target house looks like any other on the block. There are a few porch lights on, though none inside the house; lacy curtains in the windows of the ground floor; a portable soccer goal on one side of the lawn, a trampoline on the other.

"Lights," Dean orders. His favorite shotgun now has a modified aluminum-alloy flashlight holder on it, courtesy of Danny. Mer's semi has a laser sight/flashlight combo, as does Trix's. Danny prefers the heft of a Maglite paired with a Walther P99-his '007 gun.' "Nobody goes anywhere alone, we clear the rooms as a team and do not get split up. Clear?"

"Crystal," Danny says. He buckles a rifle to his back and grabs a few extra clips.

"Trix? Trixton!" Trix startles; he's been staring at the house since they got out of the car, brow furrowed.

"Yeah. Yeah, gotcha." He shakes his head and starts choosing his weapons. He's got a blessed machete that will kill just about anything, but he augments them with a gun.

"Get your head in the game, Trix. We can't have you distracted," Dean says, harsh with nerves.

"I won't be," he promises, but his gaze keeps sliding towards the house.

"Alright, this Seal involves 'The Fanatical Family.' Apparently someone has convinced an entire family of crazy people to sacrifice themselves and their kids to 'God' using some sort of special knife." Dean has long stopped being shocked by the level of stupidity people are capable of.

"God being Satan?" Mer says. She glances at Trix, who's usually on top of every horrible joke they make, but he's not playing along. Mer shoots him a worried glance but there's nothing they can do about it short of making him stay in the car and they need him.

The front door isn't locked. Dean makes an executive decision to turn on the lights as they go; might as well use electricity while it's around. A chandelier illuminates the entry way; the long hall runner that leads to the back of the house is bunched up and askew. There's a small den to the left and a dining room off to the right. The remnants of a half-eaten dinner are still on the table. A couple of glasses are over turned, one of the chair backs has broken, and the hall rug is askew.

"There's something very wrong here." Trix can be relied on for sarcasm and general unflappability; his skittishness and paranoia are off putting, adding to the general feel of foreboding.

"Dad, if these people are supposed to be willing..." Mer's starting to get scared, and Danny looks more grim than Dean's ever seen before.

"Yeah, I see it." His instincts are screaming at him. There's a closed swinging door at the back of the dining room, probably leading to a kitchen, stairs to the second floor and a hallway to the rest of the house. The second floor is just a black hole of possible traps. The entire house is silent. "We should go." Trix starts backing out of the room immediately, machete raised. Danny follows after him, the two of them covering each other. Mer slides in behind them, covering her dad's blindside.

A crash and a whimper comes from further inside the house. They all pause, tense and ready for an attack. Trix draws his gun and keeps his machete steady. A low, constant sobbing filters to them.

"No," Trix says. His knuckles are white around his machete. "It's a trap." A tortured scream tears through the air. Ragged around the edges; hoarse and worn. Not the first one. It's coming from this floor and Dean starts down the hallway.

"Dad..." He glances over his shoulder. Mer, Danny and Trix are all watching him. None of them have moved. Mer shakes her head.

"You want us to leave these people to whatever's got them?" he asks. Mer meets his gaze but soon looks away. She squares her shoulders and then steps forward, game face on.

"Of course not."

"Trix? Danny?" Trix looks like he's about to bolt and a small part of Dean wouldn't blame him.

"We're in," Danny says, dragging Trix forward. Dean nods and trusts them to fall in behind him.

They clear a bathroom, a closet, and a side porch; the kitchen is filled with too many shadows but the door swings out, so Danny shoves a couple of blocks underneath it so that if anyone tries to come out they'll hear them coming. That just leaves whatever this back room is. Based on the layout it stretches the width of the house, parallel to the kitchen.

"On three?" he asks Mer, who nods.

Dean kicks in the door. Mer drops to one knee, pressed against the doorjamb, ready to shoot. Her flashlight cuts a swath through the darkness but the beam seems weaker than it should be. Mer's sweep shows nothing unusual.

"Cover," Dean orders. He doesn't move until he feels Danny at his back. Dean steps into the room, gun aimed behind the door in case there's anyone hiding there.

The house disappears.

Dean stumbles, his mind playing catch up with his change of local.

"Dean Winchester." Dean spins around, gun raised, and pumps six rounds into the guy's chest. Human or demon, it should be enough to put either one of them out. The stranger-tall, balding, white guy in an overly expensive suit-doesn't flinch, just brushes his fingers over the holes and makes them disappear. "Now that you've gotten that out of your system. I'm Zachariah. I thought it was time we had a little chat about expectations."

"Send me back." He keeps his gun leveled on the man even though he knows it's pointless. Fucking angels. Anael's always said they'll come for him eventually, that she can only keep them off his back for so long.

"Oh, that wouldn't be in anyone's best interests. Have a seat."

"I think I'll pass," Dean says cheerfully. Zachariah smiles, oily and fake. Dean's legs collapse under him, no longer able to bear his weight. He misses the chair and ends up on the floor-because he _has no bones_, he realizes in horror.

"I don't make requests." Zachariah pulls the chair around and seats himself in it. "I take it you know what I am, but just in case you're as dense as I think you are, I'm an Angel of the Lord. I'd ask you who's been slipping you information and put those pretty little symbols all over your chest, but we already figured that out. Now, let's talk about your role in this little apocalypse. You and your brother have been meandering through the end days like we have all the time in the world. I'm tired of waiting."

"My heart bleeds for you," Dean says. He struggles to keep his mind blank, all thoughts of good angels and information hidden behind a wall of _you're all epic dicks._

"It's time to pull the trigger, Dean-o. Get this party started in true form."

"I'm not starting the freaking apocalypse for you."

"Oh, that's not an issue-we already did that. Granted, not as we'd originally planned, but Heaven, like all good bureaucracies, is filled with redundancies."

"You _planned_ this?" Dean calculates the number of people that have died, the cities he's seen destroyed and-Anael hadn't mentioned that Heaven had engineered this thing. Dean had always assumed the apocalypse was the result of aggressive neglect.

"Of course we planned this, apocalypses don't just happen. No, I've had to get creative to keep this on track. And I do hate creativity."

"What got in your way?"

"Don't you know?" Zachariah asks. Dean really doesn't like the smarmy smile that spreads across his face. "We're about eighteen years behind schedule."

"Mer," Dean breathes, fear crashing through him.

"Mary Winchester, junior model. Who helped you with that, by the way?" Zachariah pulls a silver sword from his sleeve and flips it. It looks simple but there's something quietly sinister about the weapon.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dean says. His mind races-both he and Mer are untraceable by angelic means but Zachariah obviously knew where to find him tonight. That means they know where Mer is. And Dean would bet his car that Zach is a vengeful fuckhead who won't hesitate to take out a 'delay' like Mer.

"Oh, come on, Dean. Don't play coy now. Unplanned pregnancies happen to you animals all the time, but not to people as important as you. We watch over you far too carefully for that. Don't get me wrong, there have been a few, because free will is a bitch, but you weren't one of them. No, what really gave away the game was the mother. Do you know how long we've been trying to find little Mary's mommy? What's her name...Karen? Someone's been hiding her from us for years. Not an easy thing to do when the whole of Heaven is looking for you. And I admit, we didn't keep as close a watch on you as we should have, so the question remains-who gave you Mer?"

Dean can't...the angel's messing with his head. Has to be. Mer is not a pawn in whatever game Heaven and Hell are fighting with earth as the board. No more than the rest of them. She can't be.

"You really don't know," Zachariah muses. "Interesting. Someone out there threw quite a spanner in the works with that one. Very tricksy. But not insurmountable and there's a silver lining."

"More time for you to be a douche?" Dean suggests.

"If you don't cooperate, we can always use your darling little girl." Dean jerks towards Zachariah, reaching for a weapon, his protective instincts warring with his physical limitations.

"Pathetic," a new voice says. There's an angel behind him, looking down at him with even more disdain than Zachariah.

"Ah, Uriel. How are things?"

"The abomination and this mud monkey's spawn are fighting." The asshole looks right at Dean and smirks. "The girl is losing."

"Let me go you son of a bitch!" Dean glares and projects as much anger as he can towards the angels. He's never been as good at this as S-the others, but he can pack a punch.

"What's stopping you?" Dean stares suspiciously at Zachariah and then tests his legs. They work again, the bones restored. He scrambles to his feet.

"Dean! Do try to remember that it hurts less if you cooperate," Zachariah says.

"Fuck you." Dean ignores the laughter that follows him out of the room.

***

"Dad? DAD!" Mer charges into the room with reckless abandon, Danny and Trix hot on her heels.

"Holy shit, where'd he go?" Danny shoulders in beside her, gun raised. The room was probably a den or living room but all the furniture has been removed. There are still marks in the plush carpet and detritus scattered over the floor.

"There's a transportation spell on the ceiling." Trix shines his flashlight upward. The spell's burned out, leaving only a charred outline.

"Person specific or first body through the door?" Mer asks, words clipped.

"Can't tell. I'd need to get a closer-" Three demons burst through the opposite door. Black eyes, two female bodies, one male. None of them are phased by the demon-shot, and each demon heads towards a hunter with dedicated focus.

"Shit." Mer flattens her demon's nose with the butt of her shotgun. It breaks the demon's momentum but it gets right back up. There's something odd in how she moves. It's very singular, repetitive. Less fighting and more...brute strength. Almost mindless. Like Ash's rats, throwing themselves at her finger without regard or intelligence.

Danny blows half his demon's hand off but it doesn't even flinch. Danny catches the demon in a sleeper hold. He spins it around until they're facing Trix, who does a superkick that sends his demon flying, both feet planted center mass. The force sends them both crashing to the floor, square on their backs. He flips himself up and runs Danny's demon through with his machete. The demon flashes as it dies, the smell of sulfur filling the air.

Mer uses the demons' mindlessness against it, sweeping its feet from underneath it and blasting its kneecaps away. It squeals and crawls towards her, snarling. She leads it away from Danny and Trix, not wanting to get in their way as they work. She catches movement out of the corner of her eye. There's another demon in the room. White eyes. Fuck.

She barely has time to process the thought when his power tosses her to the side. Her demon goes flying the opposite way, straight into Trix and Danny. They end up in a pile, two demons and two hunters, subsequently swept out the door which slams shut.

The demon turns to her and Mer scrambles to her feet, searching for her gun. She spies it a few feet away and lunges for it, rolls on the ground and comes up on her knees. Aiming at air. White Eyes has disappeared.

Mer backs up until she hits the wall. There's no way her father disappearing and her separation from Danny and Trix are random.

"Hello, Mer-bear." Mer jerks at the sound of that voice, a chill seeping into her bones. Sam stands at the other end of the room. He's wearing a pristine white suit and shiny white shoes, a pocket square the color of blood, hair brushed back.

"A hat and you could pass for one of the Village People," Mer says. Her voice comes out even, which is something considering her racing heart and how much she wants to run far, far away. One of the fundamental rules of hunting is do not show fear. The way Sam smiles at her, sharp at the edges, tells her she's not doing a good job.

"Weak. You can do better than that." He ambles slowly to the center of the room, the picture of unconcerned nonchalance with his hands tucked in his pockets. Mer glances to the exits and Sam's smile sharpens. No way out. She puts some steel in her spine and stands tall. Proud. Like a Winchester. Sam tilts his head to one side and considers her. "How does it feel, knowing you're going to die? I think I've forgotten."

"I'd be happy to help you revisit it," Mer says with forced cheer. Sam laughs and the sound crawls up her spine and settles in the part of her brain that screams _danger, run._

"You are not as powerful as me." Sam makes his point by slowly starting to crush Mer's chest from several feet away. She gasps, scrabbling at the wall and trying to breathe. She desperately tries to use her own abilities to combat Sam's but it's like pitting an alley cat against a lion. He watches her gasp with detached indifference. "I should have done this long ago."

"Why...didn't...you?" she pants. Her vision darkens around the edges; she can feel tears gathering in her eyes. The only thing keeping her upright at the moment is the vice Sam's put her in.

"I don't care about you," Sam says and fuck, Mer thought he'd already done all the damage he could. He touches her cheek, tenderly, wipes away her tears like when she was little and had a bad dream. He even smells the same, which is a ridiculous thing to focus on. It's so familiar.

"Atta," Mer breathes and closes her eyes in surrender. God, this is going to end _so poorly._Everything feels hyper-real: the feel of his hand around her throat, the wall cold against her back, her ribs bending almost to their breaking point. And she waits.

Sam makes a small noise so inconsistent with what she'd expect she forgets herself and opens her eyes.

His eyes are green. Clear.

"Mer?" He looks confused, almost...scared. The band around her chest disappears. The hand around her throat weakens. Sam's brow furrows and he draws his fingers over the marks he left there, light and apologetic. He makes a low, aborted noise and looks into Mer's eyes.

Mer summons every ounce of power at her disposal and sends him flying across the room. Sam dents the drywall.

Her first attempt to get off the floor fails; pain flairs brightly in her ribs and steals her breath. She presses her hand to the worst of the pain, the compression allowing her to at least move, and scrambles towards freedom. She shatters the door Danny and Trix disappeared through with a thought, though her exit consists of chasing her center of gravity, falling forward in a semi-controlled fashion. She makes it through the house, her only goal to get out and go. The world around her swims because she can't breathe, there's not enough air.

Something hits her, full-tilt, sweeps her right off her feet and Mer screams. The world around her goes cold and swirls away. She thinks she can hear the flap of wings and when she finds the ground beneath her feet again she's somewhere else, lying on her back. Her lungs don't want to work. Maybe she's forgotten how. There's wetness seeping through her shirt and her chest fucking _hurts._

"Mer, come on, you're really freaking us out here." She blinks and Danny's in front of her, a finger held in front of her mouth, testing for breath, Trix peering over his shoulder. "Breathe or I'm starting CPR." It takes a moment but Mer manages to take a long, excruciating breath.

"Thank god," Danny says. He puts a hand on Mer's ribs, just below her heart, and it steals her breath all over again.

"Danny! Move!" Trix shoves him out of the way and brushes his fingers through Mer's hair. It's comforting, soothing. She closes her eyes and works at controlling the pain, packing it away and steeling herself against it. She only comes back when Trix's words, the soft susurrous of sound he's kept up this whole time, start making sense.

This time Trix is in front and Danny's hovering.

"Welcome back," Trix says and it's a knife in her belly, ripping through her guts and twisting through bundles of nerves.

"He came back," Mer says, and only then becomes aware of her tears.


	35. Book Three: Chapter 7

Sam lays on the ground, stunned, confused. His mind moves sluggishly, thoughts swirling around each other, colliding and overlapping and none of them make any sense together. Apart, they're all terrifying. He thinks about moving but his limbs are too heavy.

Someone appears over him, just a shadow against the bright light. There are sounds, maybe words, but his own breath is the loudest thing he can hear. Something wet and warm rains down on his forehead. Sam tries to speak and some of it gets in his mouth. Tastes like copper. Tastes like power.

And he burns.

Alastair chants, a frantic litany of words tripping over his tongue. He slashes his hand and lets the blood anoint Samael's head and mouth. The Boy-King screams, arching up off the ground like it sears through him. He rolls to his knees and tears off his shirt.

"That _bitch._" There's a cleansing sigil glowing on Samael's back. A very skilled magic user has been trying to remove the demonic taint. Had almost succeeded from the looks of it. He's going to have to expend an unnecessary amount of effort to break whatever's affected Samael. Alastair uses his knife to carve a deep cut down the center of it, then reopens the wound on his hand and mixes their blood. Sam raises up on his knees and howls like a wounded animal. The green of his eyes are swallowed by darkness as the taint surges back. Alastair almost loses himself. Samael craves more, wants all that he has. His power sweeps out of him through the cut on his hand and there's something he should be remembering-

Alastair rips his hand away, stumbling back, dizzy and disconnected. Drained.

The howling stops. Samael stands, his movements fluid and easy, as if gravity is a suggestion he's currently humoring. He cracks his neck, left then right, the sounds loud in the still room.

_"Ruby."_ Samael places his hand over Alastair's heart and replaces everything he lost and then some. It's the most painful thing Alastair has ever felt. He strains at the overload and power arcs between his fingers tips. The world smells metallic and every moment is the most exquisite form of agony.

After an eternity Samael releases him and Alastair flails weakly on the ground, sucking in unneeded air. He feels like he could destroy the world with a thought. Like he would follow Samael wherever he might lead because they are _invincible_.

He staggers to his feet and laughs. Samael smiles-a feral expression tinged with gory anticipation. At the very least Alastair will have his revenge.

Ruby feels her spell break. She has so much of herself wrapped up in it that it rips out a part of her, power she'll never regain; she stumbles into the wall, her world spinning. The body she's in starts gagging instinctively.

Shit.

She feels them coming. Samael's wrath precedes him, colors the hallways and sets the hell hounds braying. Alastair is far more subtle; she'll never know where he is until the second knife is in her.

She flees to her room, activating spells she left behind to impede their progress and gain her valuable seconds. There's a bag underneath her bed, packed and ready for this very occasion and without it she won't survive. She also needs her knife, and the two crystals on her bedside table.

She's just gathered everything when door opens and Alastair steps in. Good; she has a chance.

"Ambitious," he says, taking in everything. He is wholly unconcerned and feels...different. Changed. She has no idea what happened to him, but it frightens her. "It never would have worked."

"Yes. It would've." She'd seen the signs even if no one else had. She was bringing Sam back and pushing Samael to the side. The fact that's he's here first, asked Sam for the right of first blood and won it tells her that much. She rubs the crystals together and feels the spell in them activate, warming the quartz and making them vibrate in her hands.

Alastair steps forward and she dashes the crystals at her feet. They explode with enough force to tear a hole in the fabric of the world. Ruby's sucked into the vortex the spell creates, a portal to anywhere-but-here. A random destination that no one can track.

She hits rocky, arid ground with a thud, rolls along the ground until she hits a rock, something in her arm making a sickening, wet squelch. She takes a moment to orient herself. It's night, the stars are bright points in the sky, and the air is freezing. If she were human, she'd die of exposure as she's had the good luck to appear in the middle of a desert.

She takes stock of her body. She's scraped off a good chunk of the skin on her left arm in addition to shattering the ulna. She pushes a piece of ragged, exposed bone back under the skin. She has no practice in setting bones but she manipulates what's left into a vague semblance of normalcy. It hurts to the point where she can't quite ignore it and her body starts to sweat. She watches her blood pool on the ground below her, the arid soil soaking up the moisture.

Enough. She has work to do.

Ruby turns in a circle, trying to see if there are any lights in the distance that mean civilization. Nothing. So she picks a direction and starts walking.

Dean has no idea where he is. The air is wetter than it should be, the temperature much colder. Fuck, Zachariah could have transported him anywhere. Another country, even.

Something lightly brushes against Dean's back and the feeling of distortion makes his vision swim. When he focuses again he's not where he was. He looks around, on guard for another of Zachariah's tricks, but there's no one there. He's just be transported somewhere new.

"Anna? Cas?" Snatching him from right under Zachariah's nose would be a pretty ballsy move, and his two angels aren't really known for taking risks. He gets no answer. There's really nothing left to do but start moving.

He's at the base of a steep hill. The ground crumbles underneath his boots, the short grass not enough to keep the soil together. Swearing, Dean stumbles over the crest.

"Son of a bitch." Dean's in Thrieve, a thousand miles away from where he's supposed to be. He has no idea why they dropped him here but-

"Dean?" Danny's hands are full of wood. He's got a large purple bruise over half his face. And he's looking at Dean like he's seen a ghost.

"Jesus, Danny. Is Mer okay?"

"No, come on." He starts down the path and Dean follows. "Sam was there, he tried to kill her, but he didn't and she won't tell us what happened. And then you were gone and we all ended up here and we're freaking out."

Fuck. That...that is not good. Uriel's comments come back with tormenting clarity.

"How did everyone get here?" Here is what they've dubbed Bobby's house, the one they visit when they need some esoteric book or to do some serious research, on the outskirts of Thrieve. Only a handful of people know it exists and it's got the most heavy-duty anti-demon security they can manage, even with the protective circle.

"We're assuming Angel Express?" Danny says.

"Me too," Dean sighs.

"Yeah. It's, uh, intense," Danny settles on. The back door flies open upon their approach, someone barreling out at full speed.

"Dan, we need-holy shit." Trix trips over his feet he stops so fast. Dean grabs him by the arm to stop him from falling on his face. "You disappeared! We thought Sam got you! Where'd you go? How'd you get here?"

"He didn't. Where's Mer?" He pushes past Trix and into the house. It's fairly open and simple; it's not wired as there's no electricity here, just the fire and a series of camp lights and oil lamps.

He spies her sleeping on the couch in front of the fireplace, hidden under a couple of blankets. There's a cut on her chin with a dark bruise forming on around. Her bottom lip is swollen; probably has a cut from her teeth on the inside. He touches the tender spots lightly but Mer still flinches away.

He feels the moment she wakes up, her entire body tensing for action. He stays still and immobile until she identifies him as a non-threat.

"Dad." She tries to sit up and gasps, clutching her ribs. Dean helps her up and slips a second pillow behind her back. She won't let go of his shirt.

He does his own check of her ribs to make sure they aren't cracked. She stifles a cry but the sound still sears through him. How can the fight Hell when Heaven's lurking in the shadows? Zachariah made it clear they expect Dean to fall in line for the end game or face the consequences. And what happens if Heaven and Hell are working _together?_

A chill goes through Dean because there's no way the angels snatching him and Sam showing up were independent events. That was a concerted, joint effort. He doesn't think Sam knew-Sam would choose grabbing Dean over killing Mer any day. ...right?

Trix slips in with a cold pack and salve. He hands it to Dean, offering Mer a small smile before he grabs Danny and drags him out, leaving the two of them alone. Dean holds the compress to her ribs, winces in sympathy when she hisses. They'll need to wrap 'em tomorrow.

Mer takes over holding the compress and Dean starts rubbing the salve over her bruises. He smells comfrey, arnica, and what he suspects is mullein. Identifying the ingredients and going through their properties-a hold over from the time Leslie thought he should learn how to brew his own medicine-keeps him from completely freaking the fuck out.

He takes his time, making sure he doesn't miss any spots. But there's a question burning between them that he can't ignore anymore. Mer's eyes are closed, her breathing even and steady. Not asleep.

"How'd you get away?" Mer's expression oscillates between torment and attempted stoicism. She never opens her eyes but tears leak out of the corners.

"He...he stopped."

"What?" She looks at him, so broken that he automatically responds in kind, reacting to her pain as if it's his own.

"It-it wasn't him. It was _Atta._" She loses her control and her sobs have to hurt, straining cracked ribs and tender bruises. Dean pulls her close, trying to be gentle. "Atta came back. He came back and I just ran away."

Dean leaves Mer on the couch, the fire banked for the night. He picks one of the empty bedrooms off the main room and flips on the overhead light. He toes off his boots and pulls off his shirt. The carpet is incredibly soft.

He wanders into the bathroom, already steamed up from the shower. The water is almost scalding but that's how Dean likes it.

Dean lets the water beat down on his shoulders, loosening the tension there. It feels so good.

He rubs shampoo on his head, the faint scent of orange pervading the room.

Dean reaches up and kneads his traps, the self-massage not quite what he's looking for. He moans when strong fingers dig into tense, knotted muscles. God, that's brilliant. Dean tilts his head a little to the left and the fingers obligingly follow his lead. He has a tendency to get large knots on the right side of his neck, the muscle bulging obscenely from the tension. If he lets it go too long he starts getting crippling, nauseating headaches.

The fingers coax him into leaning back, into their pressure and against the firm body behind him. Scalding water sluices off his chest, just enough splashing on his neck to keep the heat up.

"Sam," Dean sighs. Lips brush against his neck. He lets himself relax fully. Sam's hands slide down his chest and come to rest over his stomach. Sam nibbles on his ear and Dean huffs a laugh.

There's something he should be remembering, but thoughts float away the second he has them. All he can focus on is how nice the shower is, how wonderful the heat. His mind is as thick as the steam fogging up the bathroom.

"There's something you should know," Sam whispers. Dean shivers at the feeling of Sam's hot breath over his ear and the seductive promise of Sam's tone. He tries to get Sam to do it again but he won't, would rather trail kisses down Dean's neck and bite lightly at the juncture of his neck. "Ask me." Sam's fingers slide along Dean's obliques and settle against his hipbones.

"Ask you what?" Dean asks softly. He pushes his ass into Sam's erection and grins when Sam's grip tightens. He hopes there are bruises; he likes bruises.

"What you should know." Dean wiggles and Sam steps back, holding him at arm's length, body too far away, until Dean sighs and complies.

"Fine, what should I know?" Sam propels them forward, smashing Dean into the wall and pinning him there. He presses against Dean's back, hotter than the water, and the tile is bitingly cold against Dean's front. Dean struggles, the breath knocked out of him. He snaps his head back into Sam's nose, hears the bone break. Feels Sam's blood drip like lava onto his skin. Sam just laughs and digs his teeth onto Dean's shoulder, drawing blood.

Dean pushes off the wall and sends them both falling over the edge of the tub, Dean landing hard on top. He throws a few elbows getting up, enjoying Sam's pained grunt, and scrambles away from Sam's obnoxiously long limbs.

They've fought and fucked and blurred the line between both in these waking-dreams but this is different. The difference between sparring and fighting to maim.

Dean doesn't get far. Sam catches up with him and pushes him into the wall; Dean thinks that, were this reality, he'd have matching bruises on either side of his face Sam digs his fingers into the thin skin at Dean's wrist and then spins him. He looks up at Sam-

Black eyes with vivid green irises. Dean tries to jerk away but Sam holds him in place. There's a too-tight hand around Dean's throat, controlling and unrelenting.

"I'm coming for you." Sam kisses him, brutal and merciless, and Dean falls into darkness.

Alastair arrives at the given coordinates late to make a point. Someone has drawn a smiley face with a blood splotch where he's supposed to stand. Cute. Probably Uriel, who is five inches away from falling. Alastair would happily help him out if he weren't so fucking useful as an angel.

He feels the once-familiar jerk of a heavenly transportation spell pull him through the different aspects of the world and deposit him _between._ His senses are dulled though his manipulation of the space around him has increased exponentially.

The room they've dropped him in is the very definition of ostentatious. What the humans would call 'Old World.' Gilt furniture and hand-carved trim and obnoxious murals painted on the walls. Upon closer inspection, the murals all depict fluffy-winged angels with halos playing harps. Clearly designed to hold some hapless human and decorated by someone with a sharper wit than Uriel.

"You failed to deliver." Alastair straightens slowly, keeping his back to the two angels just to show that he's not intimidated by them. He conjures a red Sharpie and sketches a few improvements onto the painting. Only when he's well and truly done does he turn around and smirk. Uriel is there but the one who captures his attention is the other. Zachariah. A relatively low-ranking seraph who navigated the rigidly bureaucratic hierarchy of Heaven and is basically running the garrison on Earth. He'd make a fantastic demon.

"It seems we both had traitors in our midst." Alastair manifests a bottle of alcohol and seats himself at the table.

"We know who they are," Uriel says menacingly. Uriel makes fantastic cannon fodder.

"And we are using all of our resources to find them," Zachariah says. Alastair salutes him with his drink; so the angels had more than one traitor working against them. Interesting. Given the angelic propensity for blind faith Alastair wouldn't estimate the number to be above three individuals working against the common cause.

"And how's that going?" he asks mockingly.

"I suspect as well as the hunt for your traitor." Zachariah favors him with a mocking smile.

"She may be running, but she's powerless now. A neutralized threat. Did you bring me to your nether regions to chat about our minions' lack of perspective or something worth my time?"

"We are displeased with the pace of this Apocalypse. It does not appear to be gaining momentum."

"Meandering towards stagnation." That's as close as Alastair will ever go to agreeing with an angel, simply on principle.

"And what are we going to do about it?" Zachariah asks.

"We?" Alastair enjoys the way Zachariah's face pinches. His eyes almost disappear. He lets the word and all its implications hang between them for some time, but one should not play waiting games with immortal beings. "If _we_ are going to do something then the first move is yours."

"What do you want?" Zachariah asks. He almost seems amused.

"Dean Winchester. Samael will not budge until he has his consort at his side. Nothing will sway or distract him. And trickery doesn't work; he's annoyingly perceptive for a pawn."

"We need him."

"You have a spare."

"This is how it's supposed to be, brother against brother. How it's always been and always will be. Besides, the symmetry is appealing." Not to mention Zachariah can't stand Dean's obnoxious offspring. She's suspiciously powerful and a foil to all of his best-laid plans.

"Appealing. You're going to derail the Apocalypse for _appealing._" Alastair's lip curls in disdain. It's very human.

"It's not our problem that you can't control your-"

"The _problem_ is that Sammy loves Deanie. Doesn't just lust after his tight little ass and fairly average-sized cock. He's obsessive and possessive and wants to hurt your too-pretty Michael suit in the worst ways and he still _loves_ him with every fiber of his black little heart and there is nothing I can do to exorcise it. Believe me, I have tried, but they've sunk so far in each other the loss will either drive them mad or kill them. That is both of our problem if you want this thing to happen."

Zachariah steeples his fingers and regards Alastair evenly. Inside he rages with vicious satisfaction. He warned Dean about going against them.

"We will use the girl as Heaven's instrument. Samael can have his consort. We withdraw all protection from Dean Winchester." A scroll appears on the table, the golden lettering of their pact appearing before their eyes. A drop of Zachariah's blood and a dash of Alastair's and it is done. Alastair raises his tumbler in a toast as the two angels disappear. It's time to light a fire under this apocalypse, and he knows just how to do it.


	36. Book Three: Chapter 8

"-the hell are..." Anna and Castiel appear with Bobby in tow. Bobby boggles, looking around his house with wide, shocked eyes. Dean and Mer both have guns trained on them, but that's just a reflex; they're staring at Anna and Castiel a little widely as the two angels rarely appear together for fear of being caught. They've also never introduced themselves to Bobby or given any indication that they know he exists.

"We have been discovered," Castiel says. He's holding himself even more stiffly than usual, which is a feat in and of itself. Bobby wrenches his arm from Castiel's grip and stumbles into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Son of a bitch." He looks a bit green around the gills.

"And how was your flight with Air Angel today?" Dean asks with a smirk, holstering his gun. He snags the whiskey off the table; Bobbly looks like he could use it.

Bobby shakes his head and grips the table. Angels are all fine a good in theory, but he's never wanted to associate with them. They like to talk to Dean or, if he's unavailable, Mer and act like the rest of them don't exist.

"Damn thing just appeared in the middle of the woods and zapped me here without a by-your-leave," he grumbles, glaring at Castiel.

"We had no time to explain," Anael says from where she's materialized beside Mer. He hands glow faintly with healing light; Mer's eyes are tightly shut and her lips are pressed together in an effort to suppress her pain. Anael's healing comes with a price. "Zachariah has discovered our duplicity. We could not rescue Dean without revealing ourselves. We are being searched for even now."

"Connecticut?" Dean asks, though he already knows. He keeps his back to the angels and takes a deep, calming breath.

"A well-laid trap," Anael confirms. "I did not send you those coordinates. By the time we discovered Zachariah's deception it was too late."

"So Zachariah really is working with Sam." Dean feels Bobby's incredulous gaze; his fear, dismay and pessimism like a Gordian knot in the back of Dean's mind.

"If not directly then with someone very close to him," Anael says. Dean scowls and turns to look at Anael but finds that Castiel has snuck up behind him without regard for personal space. He takes a step back, then around Cas, who just pivots on his heel so Dean is never out of his line of sight. It's creepy.

"That's really not good, right?" Their attention is drawn to the door, where Danny stands holding a bunch of bandages and a basket of vegetables. "I mean, if Heaven and Hell have joined forces, then we're totally fucked. They can't be working together, it's not _fair_ we-" Danny's eyes roll into the back of his head and he collapses on the ground. Castiel looks down at his crumpled form, arm still extended with two fingers poised where Danny's head had been. A tomato rolls across the floor.

"What the fuck, Cas?" Dean demands. He checks Danny's pulse by habit and then hoists him up over his shoulder. He glares at Castiel who stares back blankly.

"His mental state was not conducive to the conversation." Dean rolls his eyes and carries Danny into the other room, dropping him unceremoniously onto the bed. Fucking _angels._ He takes a moment to breathe and pack away some of the revelations of the night. He'll deal with them later.

He turns to the door and almost collides with Anael.

"Christ, wear a bell!" he hisses, less out of fear for waking Danny-he'll be out for a good couple of hours, Dean knows this from experience-and more because he's pretty sure Anael's cornered him for an uncomfortable reason. Also, personal space. "I thought you at least understood about personal bubbles."

"You do collect strange and unique amongst humanity," Anael says before turning her attention fully on Dean. "Your dreams are troubled." Dean bristles.

"What is with you people and my dreams?" Dean demands. Anael cocks her head slightly to the side and her body goes still. It's times like these that Dean remembers the angels use host bodies just like demons do, though with a slightly different set of rules. It's unnatural, this stillness.

"I cannot keep him from your mind, though there are ways to block-"

"No." Dean's had enough of people fucking with his head-Kai, the angels, Missouri, Mer. He's not letting Anael touch it.

"The reticence you feel is not entirely your own, Dean," Anael says and that's how Dean knows she's trying to whammy him. Anael can fake human like a champ, but it takes effort, and the only time she uses his name other than to capture his attention is when she's trying to coerce him into a specific course of action. Some sort of psychological bullshit that he'd actually fallen for before he caught on to her.

"No." Dean has had it with being manipulated. By everyone.

"Dad!" Mer calls, effectively stopping their conversation. He smirks at the flash of annoyance on Anael's face and brushes past her.

Mer's shirt is off and Bobby is testing the give of her ribs. Most of the bruises have faded into grotesque yellow-green splotches. She looks at him and grimaces. "I could pass for a Vulcan." Dean musters a weak smile but he can't takes his eyes off her injuries. Just a little more, a moment later-

Dean pulls himself away from that train of thought; they have too much to do for him to waste time like that.

"So what now?" he asks the room at large. Everyone glances at one another, blank-faced. Bobby shakes his head and pours himself a drink. "Come on. There has to be something we can do. A plan, a Seal we can save. Cas? Anna? Bueller?" The silence is heavy and unrelenting. They seem frozen in place, wax statues only emulating life. Dean's eyes are immediately drawn to Anael when she shifts uncomfortably, a strikingly human gesture.

"Mary, do you still have the Book of Parcae?" Anael asks. Mer's brow furrows. She throws Dean a questioning look but he's at a loss as well.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." But there's hesitation there at the end, a worried line between her eyes that means she's not quite sure.

"Aw, hell," Bobby says. He scrubs at his face and when he turns towards them again he looks ancient and ashen. "Not _that_ thing again."

"Yes," Anael says and Bobby pours himself a bigger drink.

"What book?" Dean asks. No one answers him. Castiel's too busy hovering in the background looking stoic. Bobby is muttering cranky nothings into his tumbler. Mer and Anael are have some sort of staring contest from across the room. An uneasy feeling settles in Dean's stomach, growing into alarm when Mer's eyes widen with understanding. He reads both surprise and fear there.

"The Impala is outside," Anael says. Mer spins on her heel and disappears, the screen door slamming closed behind her.

"You want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Dean asks. He rocks onto the balls of his feet, ready for anything, stifling the impulse to follow after his kid. His attention sharpens, every detail in the room standing out in stark clarity. He feels the weight of every weapon on his body. And Anael just _shrugs_ as if Dean isn't two seconds from an overprotective rage.

Mer comes back before he can get truly worked up, duffel in hand which she promptly dumps onto the ground. Her belongings spill haphazardly across the floor, clothes and the odd tool falling into a pile until she's down to the very bottom, the forgotten things that rarely see the light of day. A leather satchel, covered with symbols, falls to the floor and surrenders its contents. Dean can _feel_ the Book. There's no way to describe it, but everything in him is aware of it.

"What the fuck is that?" Dean asks, stepping away from it.

"You've been carrying that all this time?" Bobby demands. His first instinct is to shoot the damn thing and call it a day. It's been years since he saw it and he'd've died happy had he never seen it again. Mer shrugs, staring down at the book with an odd expression.

"You know what it is?" Dean asks Bobby.

"Yeah, I know it." Bobby resigns himself to going through this again. He doesn't believe for a moment that Dean'll be any smarter than his daddy, and double or nothing Mer'll be jumping on the bandwagon too. "Thing got your father killed."

"I think...I think he sent it to me," Mer says. "I can't remember..."

"Yeah, don't strain yourself. It messes with reality; if it doesn't want you to remember, you won't." Bobby clears a place on his desk. "Well, bring it over here." Mer and Dean eye each other over the relic and Bobby sighs. "Girl, you've been carrying that thing around for years, pick it up and bring it over." Mer makes a face but does as instructed, trying to minimize contact by holding one corner. Really, she should know better.

Bobby peels the protective wrap from around the Book. From the way both Dean and Mer flinch the thing is screaming at them; just another reason he's glad there's not a psychic bone in his body. He opens the book at random and begins flipping through the pages.

None of it makes any sense.

Each page looks like a jumble of symbols and languages, written on top of each other, sideways, upside down with an occasional swirl of incomprehensible images. If he pauses too long and makes an effort to differentiate between the languages his head starts to hurt, a sharp stabbing pain right behind his eyes.

"This is stupid, who needs a book no one can read?" Dean huffs in frustration.

"There is a page written for every human in the world," Anael says. She and Castiel keep a respectful distance from the artifact. "Keep going until you find it."

"You can't be serious," Dean says. He eyes the Book warily, still fighting the urge to get away from it. He notices Bobby hesitate at one page, fingers twitching before he continues on. Dean files it away but doesn't say anything; if Bobby doesn't want to translate his future Dean's certainly not going to make him. They're not a third of the way through the Book when Dean registers something other than nonsense and squiggles.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean says. This page...the words seem to straighten in front of his eyes. They unfurl from the tight, dense knot they had been, order forming from chaos. It's still a mishmash of languages, but there's a pattern to them. He recognizes some, can pick out a few words he's already familiar with, but translating this is going to be a bitch.

"Well?" Bobby asks.

"It looks like writing, but it's like some ten-year-old with ADD sat down and wrote it in every random language they could think of," Dean says. He reads out a few of the words-judging by Bobby's winces his pronunciation is atrocious-and names some of the languages he recognizes. It's mostly Greek to him.

"Fuck," Bobby sums up.

"Nothing comes without effort." Everyone turns to look at Castiel.

"Thank you, Yoda," Dean says. "Wait, don't you speak every language ever known? Come translate this."

Anael shakes her head. "We cannot help."

"Bullshit, Heaven doesn't want you, Hell won't take you. I think you've got bigger issues than breaking a few rules," Dean says.

"Angels are agents of chance and fate, but we are not its keeper. We may influence but not know."

"That's great, but what the hell does it mean?" Dean asks, frustrated by all the prevaricating. Anael demonstrates by approaching the Book. The pages go blank, the ink fading from sight. Bobby flips through it and all the pages are the same. She moves away and the lettering slowly returns. It looks like someone's writing the Book at that moment, stroke-by-stroke.

"I've seen some freaky things in my time," Bobby says faintly, "but this takes the cake."

"So why do we need this?" Mer asks.

"Castiel and I are no longer privy to Heaven's plans. It seems we have not been, in the way we thought, for some time. The Book never lies. It's the only guide we have at the moment." Anael hesitates, discomposed enough to let her uncertainty show on her host. "And I fully expect Zachariah's efforts to escalate."

"You mean he wasn't bringing his A-game _before?_" Dean asks.

"How do we even know this will work?" Mer says, preempting the derailment she sees coming.

"Dean is a cornerstone of this Apocalypse. His fate is irrevocably tied to its resolution."

"Well in that case, I'll do mine as well," Mer says

"Mer-" The glare she turns on him is searing. He swallows the rest of his protest; they don't have time for the fight that will ensue otherwise. He tries to take Ellen's advice and accept her decision. Mostly. "Fine. I'll copy down mine first-"

"It will not be that simple. The Book will protect its secrets." Dean sighs and even though he knows Anael or Castiel _can't_ just give them all this information, he can't help his frustration.

"Well. Then I guess we have some research to do."

Bobby doesn't have all the resources they need, but luckily they've acquired two fugitive angels who have nothing better to do than run errands. Soon the dining room table is groaning with old tomes and manuscripts, the musty smell permeating the room, and they have to convert one of the bedrooms into a study. Danny woke up, shot them all a wounded, traumatized look, and took off with to "network and stock supplies." Which was probably code for crash with Trix's port-in-the-storm out here, as far from the angels as they could get.

Dean attempts his translation but research has never been his strong suit and as no one but Dean can read his page, he has no choice but to do all the legwork himself. Despite Anael's warnings he tries to copy the whole of his prophecy onto sheets of paper. This results in migraines, gibberish, and crippling spontaneous carpal tunnel. There's no discernible pattern to what he can get down; sometimes it's almost a full line, other times it's word-by-word. Bobby helps with most of the more esoteric translations; the figure out a few cheats and work arounds that tend to work.

The different languages come together in a way that requires some creative thinking to interpret, which means the angels are fairly useless for anything other than a straight forward translations or fact checking. It's all a moot point anyways. The farther Dean gets into his own prophecy the less inclined he is to ask for help. Soon the only way he can get through the next word is to forget what came before. Or to jump around and translate at random.

He works steadily, only stopping when Mer insists he get some sleep, often times sitting down at the table and refusing to sleep or move until he does. Something about this setup reminds him achingly of his father and Sam, sat at a similar kind of table with Sam adamant about his school and John caught between acknowledging the futility of Dean's education and actually being a father. He doesn't have the heart to tell her he barely manages to nap, the image of the future that's being written before his eyes and the ever-present threat of Heaven and Hell-working together, _fuck them_ that is totally against the rules-fueling his insomnia.

Dean finishes his translation around four AM on the seventh day. He stares at the words he's written.

He burns the paper and walks away.

Bobby doesn't ask why Dean's decided to drink his weight in whisky at eight in the morning. He'd stocked up the moment Dean started working on that damnable Book. So he does the only thing he can and sits across from Dean at the kitchen table and doesn't ask.

The really troubling thing is that after half a bottle Dean summons Castiel. Bobby feels his eyebrows lift of their own volition when Dean slurs out a request for sobriety, which Castiel grants, and then demands the angel take them somewhere no one can follow, but to not even tell Dean where they're going. He doesn't say a word when they disappear, the Book tucked underneath Dean's jacket. He only hopes they put that thing somewhere _no one_ will ever find it and that neither one of them breathes a word of it to anyone else.

Bobby just sighs and pours a stiff drink for when Dean gets back, slumping down in his seat. There's amber liquid left in his own tumbler, untouched, because there's drinking and there's _drinking_ and not even Hunters should drink alone if they can help it.

"I need you to check a translation." Aw, hell. Bobby glances up at Mer and takes the paper without a word. The original languages are written meticulously above their English counterparts, which shouldn't be possible. "It doesn't seem to care about the original once you've already translated it." Bobby shrugs 'cause that makes as much sense as any other magical thing in the world.

He reads through the prophecy. He's so fucking grateful he's already been drinking when he reads through it again. He must not be keeping up a very good front because she curses softly and downs what was supposed to be Dean's drink.

"Mary..." She waits for him to finish but he can't. What could he possibly say that wouldn't be an empty platitude or blatant lie?

"Check it."

He already knows it's right. He's one of the ones who trained her how to research, after all. And there's no way Mer hasn't checked this twice. Three times. Not when it says...

Bobby checks the fucking translation. It doesn't take long because Mer's marked all the books, the pages have little tabs with corresponding, cross-indexed labels sticking out of them and Bobby has a moment because this is Sam's system. The same mesh of law school prep and hunter logic.

Bobby works through the translation stoically taking it phrase-by-phrase (he'd realized pretty early on that word-by-word wasn't going to work with Mer's prophecy). Towards the end his lettering looks a bit shaky, but that's just because his hand is cramping.

Bobby pours another drink for Mer and doubles up on his own. Staring at the glass, hands hidden beneath the table, she looks eighteen. It's so easy to forget how young she is. How young most of them are-Danny, even Trix. That little doctor that flits about. People who would never be in this life if not for Sam.

He abruptly flips the translation over so he doesn't have to see it. So it's not looking at him, damning him by association. Mer laughs, a dry, cracked sound, and doesn't touch her drink.

They sit there in silence until the heavy sound of boots comes up the steps. Mer starts breathing hard, her fingers curling around the edges of the table and she sways in her seat. Bobby glances between her and the door, tense and ready for violence.

"Hey! I had Cas swing by that wing place in..." Dean pauses on the threshold, caught between fleeing from the danger inside and standing his ground. Dean's shit at hiding things where his family's concerned so Bobby sees the moment it registers for him-Mer knows.

"It doesn't matter," Dean says. Like saying it will make it true.

"You knew." She hurls the words with precision, weapons sent to maim him. "You knew, and you weren't going to tell me that you're going to ask me—"

"It doesn't matter!" he repeats, his anger a searing counter part to hers.

"How can you say that—"

"Because I would never ask you to-" He sucks in a breath, panting like he ran a marathon. Mer's eyes drift to her translation and Dean follows her gaze. "There is nothing in this world that could ever make me ask you to do that. Nothing."

"The Book—"

"No. It does. Not. Matter. We make our own destiny." He snatches her translation up and rips it in half, throws the pieces in the tumbler of alcohol. His hand disappears into his pocket, searching. Dean finds what he's looking for, his silver Zippo, and ignites the alcohol-soaked paper.

"That does not make it go away," Mer says icily. _"And so she shall have no kin to hold close, with one strike to fell him the child sortiarius must do as the Father asks or the world will burn in the fires of Revelation."_

"There is no such thing as fate."

"Funny how you weren't saying that when you didn't know what the Book said." They stare at each other across the table, neither of them giving any ground. "Your hypocrisy is astounding." Mer knocks against him as she storms out the door, the screen slamming shut behind her. Dean stares at the flaming glass, the alcohol almost burned away.

"Dean," Bobby says. The word snaps him out of his stupor and straight into fury. He picks up a chair and throws it against the wall, kindling falling to the floor. He disappears into one of the bedrooms and Bobby's left to contemplate the best way to mend whats left of his little family when the fabric's almost worn through.

Mer paces the crest of the hill behind the house. She's bitten several of her fingernails to the quick but the throb of pain isn't sharp enough to be satisfying. She's jittery and on edge-she hasn't slept in days, her nights dedicated to translating while everyone else was asleep, her days spent catching cat-naps and acting like she wasn't about to collapse on the nearest soft surface so no one got suspicious. The Adderall she'd gotten from Trix-sworn to secrecy-had helped.

And she can't. She can't do this. This cannot be the only way to defeat Sam.

She _will not._

"Anna. Anael! An-"

"I am here." The angel looks calm. Unfazed. Vacant.

"I won't do it." Anael doesn't move, simply regards her with an air of patient indifference. "You can't...you can't ask me to do that."

"I won't be the one asking," Anael says. Mer feels her eyes burn but refuses to give into the tears; this is not the time for crying.

"Tell me how I save him."

"It cannot be done." That's not true. Mer _knows_ it's not true. Words she's heard before, somewhere, bounce around in her head.

"Anything is possible if you're willing to pay the price," Mer says, her veneer of control shattering. "Tell me how to save him. Anything. I just-I can't lose him too. Please." The despair and fear subsume her anger, drain it out of her and leaves her hollowed out and empty because it's been such a steadfast companion she doesn't know what to do without it.

Anael considers this course of action, looks at the complex intersections of the world and separates the consequences of her decision. There is no clear course, no one thread that stands out amongst the others. But considering Mary's provenance that is not unexpected.

"There are many kinds of loss," she says, but Mary does not hear her meaning.

"If you don't help me, I will find someone who will." Anael sees the truth of her words, the different paths her immeasurable dedication to family might lead to, and makes her choice.

"We must first retrieve a spear." Anael extends her hand and when Mer takes it they both disappear.

Ruby slips through the shadows of what was once Chicago. She's traded arid desert for freezing rain and biting wind which, in her near-powerless state, is a pretty shitty deal. But she got what she came for, the Herald's Trumpet nestled under her arm, Excalibur strapped to her back (not as big as the movies make it out to be), a kills-anything gun tucked in the waistband of her jeans and a few other knickknacks she's picked up along the way. Most of these objects represent Seals that Alastair and Sam no longer have the option of breaking. Stupid of them not to have better protection; they should have learned when she wiped out the first stash.

Footsteps come up behind her, fast and purposeful. She ducks into an alley and breaks into a run. The shouts are joined by growls; calling in the hell hounds has been the one instance of creative thought her pursuers have shown.

She hears the warning growl moments before the hound leaps at her. She spins around and throws herself to the ground, knife held in front of her. The hound impales itself with its own weight, its outline visible to the human eye as the last of its power sparkes in its death throes.

She pulls up with the knife and splits the hound down the center, hot blood and entrails soaking through her clothes. She shoves it off and keeps running, searching for a place to hide; the smell of death will buy her a few minutes from the rest of the pack. With the heavy rain maybe even shake them completely. It all depends on luck, which Ruby knows is a fool's game but she might just be the biggest fool she's ever met. This would be so much easier if she was at even quarter strength. Being mostly human blows.

She veers abruptly to the left when she hears voices ahead. Another dirty little alley, crumbling buildings too close together for comfort. She's a few feet from another intersection when her ankle turns. Her speed sends her careening into one of the abandoned buildings, rotting plywood disintegrating around her.

She swears and presses herself against the wall as footsteps approach and move on, fading in the distance. She holds her place, afraid to move lest her luck be a trap. In fact, she may never move, just waste away in this building clutching the Horn with a magical short sword digging into her back.

A small sound further in the building catches her attention. Her heart races and she realizes she's manifesting a physical reaction to fear. That makes her angry enough to chase after the source, as if that will make the fear go away.

She slinks forward, approaching with caution. There's barely enough light to make out shapes so the flicker of a candle underneath a door is very noticeable. She hears bodies moving around inside, the muted sound of rustling clothes and light breaths.

She pushes the door open, unsurprised the well-oiled hinges make no sound.

An emaciated teenage boy with a face full of acne and shaggy long hair aims a rusty rifle at her, hands trembling. She leans to one side so she can get a look at the...six children huddling behind him.

"You must be joking." What the fuck is a band of kids doing running around Chicago? The demon activity aside, the humans that stuck around this place aren't exactly pleasant.

"Go away!" He jabs the gun towards her, the movement awkward and unpracticed. "I'll shoot you, I swear!"

"Really?" Ruby leans forward and lets her eyes go black. The younger kids scream and shrink back, hiding behind an equally frail looking girl brandishing a Bowie knife. She's got to give it to the kid with the gun: he doesn't back down.

"It's got demon-killing bullets in it," the kid lies. "It does!"

"Yeah, y'all are just a regular bunch a hunters, ain't you?" Ruby drawls in the manner of her (former, long-dead) host. The sudden onset of a Texas accent confuses the boy, who looks towards the girl giving Ruby the perfect opportunity to snatch the rifle out of his hands.

"This isn't even loaded."

"We, uh. Ran out of bullets. A couple days ago." The kid shifts uncomfortably, like Ruby's a teacher who caught him ditching school.

"Who died?" No way these kids have been on their own long. They've got the survival instincts of a moth near a bonfire.

"Jim." It's the girl this time, running a soothing hand through a six-year-old's tangled hair and looking at her in challenge. "He was my brother. Bunch of those rage zombies caught him scavenging. Beat his brains out."

"Right." Of all the cities in the world, she picked the one where Alistair's testing his pestilential cocktail of zombified crazy. Great. Ruby turns around and walks out of the room. The kids don't follow. She sighs and sticks her head back in the room. "Coming? I'm not hanging around much longer."

She's just going to use the kids to get out of the city. No one will think to look for her travelling with a bunch of orphans.

Dean glares out the window. He's suppressing the urge to pace even though he's already driven everyone out of the living room.

"I have been unable to locate Anael." Dean turns and finds Castiel mere inches away. He doesn't react, just stares at the angel and matches his silence. They've been doing this song and dance for _days. _Since Mer disappeared and Anael dropped off the grid.

"That's enough, Castiel. He's not fit for angelic company." Dean wonders what spark of humanity made Cas retrieve Missouri. Probably Bobby. "Honestly, he's not fit for any company, but we make exceptions for family." Castiel hovers uncertainly, at a loss with so much free will at his disposal, and looks bemused as Missouri ushers him out of the room.

"I shall search again for Anael," he announces.

"You go and do that, honey," Missouri says, patting him on the back. Castiel nods and disappears. Dean gives in and starts pacing, Missouri watching him from her place by the fire. Just when her gaze starts getting too heavy she speaks. "She'll come back when she's ready."

"So you keep telling me." The point is she shouldn't have _left._ She should have had more discipline than that. He'd never have considered pulling that shit when he was her age, ditching his father in the middle of a hunt much less a full-fledged Apocalypse. Missouri sighs and eases down into the chair. Dean has the thought that she's getting old.

"Don't you dare put me in my grave before my time, Dean Winchester," she warns. Dean rolls his shoulders and turns his thoughts back to his daughter, an ever-deepening spiral of anger, betrayal, and frustration. Time for a change of subject, then. "But while we're on the subject of getting old—"

"Not now, I don't—"

"Just what are you going to do when Mer starts looking less like your child and more like your sister?" Missouri says right over him. Dean grits his teeth and rests his head against the window. Why do all the people in his life insist on making him _talk_ about things. He was doing just fine ignoring it.

"You really think no one's noticed you've gone back in time? And that you're staying there?" Missouri asks in that voice which means she finds him incredibly dense. Dean smacks his head into the glass. "Where do you think he stopped? Early thirties by my guess, I could—"

"Stop it," Dean snarls, spinning away. "Just. Just stop. That's the least of my concerns right now."

"Yeah, I'm getting that," Missouri returns evenly. "But I've let it slide for over a year, Dean. And I think _you_ need to think about what it means that Sam went and froze you in time. The power and conviction it takes to do that kind of reversal and binding. It's the first thing he did when he gave in to whatever blackness got hold of him."

"No," Dean says, returning to his vigil. "The first things he did was try to kill my kid."


	37. Book Three: Chapter 9

Alastair sits in his 'seat of honor' and refrains from gouging his eyes out with his soup spoon. He's learned from long experience that one must let Lilith play her games out; apparently Lilu, the Collector of Souls and Lilith's first born, is acting out some extended grieving process for Mummy Dearest. Alastair wonders what would happened if he just skipped ahead to the inevitable bloody ending.

"What do you think mommy?" Alastair sighs and turns his attention to the terrified human sitting rigidly at the table.

"I...I think that sounds great, sweetie." Her voice breaks on that last word and Alastair steels himself for a fresh flood of tears from the woman. She surprises him by showing a bit of spine and forcing herself to calm down.

The husband isn't fairing so well. He's shaking, the sound of his silverware striking the plate grating and, more importantly, not in line with the happy laughing family Lilith liked to role play. She'd have already killed the man by now, but Lilu just keeps dragging it all out.

"Daddy?" The man drops his fork. Lilu smiles, just a slight quirk of his lips, but it's enough to make the husband start hyperventilating and if the wife holds onto her glass any harder it'll shatter.

"Lilu?" Alastair interrupts, voice smooth as silk. "Why don't we let Mommy and Daddy clear the table? I've got presents for you after all."

"Okay!" Lilu slips out of his seat and skips around the table. He takes Alastair's hand and drags him out of the room. He stops at the threshold to look at his 'parents.' "Don't forget, a clean home is a happy home!"

"O-of course, dear. You just go with Un-Uncle Al, okay?" Lilu leads him to the couch. A few moments later Alastair hears a devastated, hysterical scream and the sound of plates crashing to the floor.

"And what was that?" he asks.

"I didn't like my siblings," Lilu says with a shrug. He settles in front of a large Barbie's playhouse and starts arranging the dolls in increasingly disturbing scenarios, complete with real blood.

"Samael is-"

"MOMMY!"

It takes almost a full minute for the housewife to come out. Her eyes are large and red-rimmed, face pale with shock.

"Ice cream?" Lilu chirps. The woman nods woodenly and turns to go. "Oh, and Mommy?"

Lulu waits for the woman to turn back around. Alastair realizes her black pants are wet with blood. Lilu ducks his head and looks up through his lashes, an adorable little guileless boy.

"I love you!" The woman makes a small trapped sound and stumbles away. Alastair laughs and raises his tumbler in appreciation; that was quite masterfully done.

"So we need to talk about Samael." As amusing as the evening's entertainment has been, they have much bigger issues.

"You always want to talk about Samael," Lilu says with a scowl. He decapitates one of the dolls and throws it away. Subtle.

"He's being annoyingly uncooperative."

"Then _make_ him cooperative. That is your job."

"My job," Alastair snarls, "is to pave the way for Lucifer's reign on Earth. As is yours." He watches the little boy persona fall away.

"Are you insinuating-" the sibilant word crawls up his spine and wraps around him "-that I am not doing my part?"

"Here's your-" The woman stops, her survival instincts insisting she remain as small and motionless as possible. Lilu flicks his wrist and the woman's head twists around 180 degrees.

"Terrorizing families is all fun and games, but I have a problem because we cannot bring Hell and our Master to Earth without Samael."

"And what does that have to do with me?" Lilu asks. He's like a teenager in a six year old's body. A teenager sired and raised by Lilith, who sacrificed herself to bring his youngest brother into the world.

"Samael will not move forward without his brother. I need you to help me give him what he wants because Dean will not choose us of his own volition." Luce knows Sam's spent enough of his time and energy _trying_ to bring Dean over. Something Alistair was happy to indulge while it suited but is proving to be an insurmountable obstacle as they enter the final stretch of this ordeal. Lilu studies Alastair quizzically, then grins in childlike delight.

"Daddy, could you come here for a minute?" The husband trips over his wife's body, screams and scuttles away from her like a crab, right into the couch. He looks up in blind panic, only registering that his possessed son is standing over him after a delay. He tries to run but Lilu wraps his hand around the man's neck and pulls him close. He opens his mouth, his jaw cracking as it unhinges, and thick black smoke pours out through his eyes and mouth, right into the man.

The boy's body crumples to the ground. Lilu, once again possessed of a grown up's body, shifts and tests his new limits. He opens his eyes and they're milky white.

"Good. Now let's talk about what it would take to turn Dean Winchester into a demon," Alistair says.

Alastair watches the Boy-King carve into the demon stretched on his rack. Alastair shifts his vision so he sees the corporeal body straining against its bounds as well as the blackened soul trapped inside. Sam's knife, one of Alastair's most inspired creations, creates wounds on two different planes.

This demon was one of Ruby's cohorts but they both know they'll get nothing out of him. This is just a bit of fun. A way for Samael to vent his frustrations and for Alastair to guide him. He could be great, their Samael. Lucifer's chosen.

"Feeling nostalgic?" Samael asks, turning and licking the blade of his knife. Ah, if only he'd had shown such interest when this started. They certainly would have moved well past shock-value actions. Admittedly, that's a step in the grooming process, one everyone goes through. His thoughts take a decidedly indulgent turn and he wonders if this is what it feels like to be a father watching his child grow up.

"Take notes," Alastair says. "I'll break him in thirteen minutes and-"

"Thirty-six seconds." Alastair accepts the challenge with the first flick of the knife. Five carefully placed cuts, varying lengths and depths made along specific nerve clusters and he knows exactly what it will take to break the demon. And what it would take to mold him.

He stretches out the dance, shows off a little for Samael. By the time they're in the homestretch the demon's as fragile as cracked glass. He meets Samael's eyes as the seconds tick down and away.

He brushes his fingers lightly against the demons's ear when the clock hits zero, the barest of touches, and the demon falls into a thousand pieces. Alastair smiles and runs his hands lightly over his swain's back and whispers endearments in his ear, words of love and affection. He looks over his shoulder, gratified to see Samael's respect and admiration.

"A one of a kind piece of art," he says, taking in the cuts and marks.

"Well look at that. There's poetry in your soul, Samael." Sam throws his head back and laughs.

"What do you want?" Sam asks, wiping the corner of his eyes. There's a smudge of blood on his brow, a sanguine benediction. Alastair reaches up and draws a bloody thumb down through it, making an inverted cross.

"This is your day of repentance," Alastair says, pleased with the symbolism. "I want to make a deal."

"You want to negotiate with me?" Samael's amusement isn't the pure human emotion he's expressed in the past. This is lethal.

"I want," Alastair says, and Samael is a _child_ when it comes to embracing his sadism, "to give you everything you need to fling wide the gates of Hell so the King of Glory might come in."

"You want to give me Dean."

"I want to give you the world. But I'll start with Dean."

Mer appears in the house seven full days after she left, dirty, disheveled, and exhausted. Dean discovers her curled up on his bed fast asleep. Her knuckles are raw, there are twigs and leaves tangled in unkempt hair, and she's got a few very impressive bruises on her arms and torso. There's a deep cut across her palm, the kind of thing that makes him think of a ritual. She so deeply asleep she doesn't even register his mental intrusion, save for an instinctive acceptance that fades into deep sleep.

He camps out at her bedside in a very uncomfortable chair for thirty three hours. He's aware of Bobby, Trix, and Danny poking their heads in from time to time, but other than ordering Bobby to find him a way to summon the angels-both of whom have conveniently disappeared-Dean ignores them all. He vacillates between rage and fear, visions where she never wakes up filling his head.

He stares at her and wonders where his little girl went.

He falls asleep in spite of himself and wakes up at the closing of a door, disoriented and confused until-Mer isn't in bed. He rockets to his feet, reaching for the gun tucked at his back.

"Dad." Her voice comes from behind him, an octave lower than normal and strained. She sways on her feet, still drained and exhausted.

"Mary, get back in bed!" He slips and arm around her waist and guides her back to the bed. Her eye-roll is half-hearted at best which says more about how she feels than anything else. But once he's got her tucked in safely his worry fades and the anger rushes back.

"Mary." She regards him unflinchingly. Calmly.

"Dad." The evenness of her tone just serves to fuel his fury.

"You lied to me."

"I didn't."

"You went behind my back to translate a very dangerous book that doesn't even-"

"Hypocrisy does not make for a very good argument," Mer says. Dean swears he hears a _you asshole_echo in his head. "And you do not get to unilaterally order me around."

"You betrayed my trust-"

"Yeah, well you betrayed mine!" Mer snaps, her exterior of calm crumbling into righteous indignation. "And I don't regret anything!"

And it's Dean's turn to shut down, pack his fiery emotions behind a frigid glare. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Bullshit. Dean knows that one, has _used_ that tone before. He can practically see the secret Mer's protecting behind the opaque walls she's hiding behind.

"What. Did. You. Do."

"I got angry, I blew off some steam, started a barfight. Fucked everything that moved, started another bar fight, and then dragged my ass home. I've learned some _stellar_ coping mechanisms over the years, can you tell?" Dean stands up, his chair clattering to the floor, but all he can do is glare in impotent rage. Her stoic behavior grates on him all the more.

"Do we have a hunt to go on?" she asks when the silence has built. Trick question, there's always a hunt to go on.

Dean considers and discards a hundred answers before deciding he's too angry to have this conversation. "You're in no condition to hunt." She looks down at her bandaged knuckles and shrugs.

"It's not that bad." She makes a fist though the gauze stops her from completing the movement.

"How'd you-"

"No."

"Mary-"

"No, Dad. I'm not going to tell you anything. I took some time to deal with the knowledge that-"

"Don't you bring that up." She looks at him, no hint of emotion on her face save where her lips are pressed into a thin line. Dean feels himself brace for the blow he can see coming.

"You're going to ask me to kill you." She closes her eyes and takes a breath, before continuing. "I have processed and I have dealt. Now I'm back, I don't want to talk about it anymore, and I would like for us to get out of this giant Devil's Trap and beat the shit out of some evil assholes."

Dean flips the chair upright with a flick of his foot and stalks right out of the house without a word. He's pulled and thrown the first knife before he consciously acknowledges the urge. His second and third follow quickly, clustered tightly together in the trunk of a young tree. He jogs to the tree, pulls them out, and repeats until he's worked himself into a sweat.

He becomes aware of Bobby sitting on the porch watching him. When his arm aches and his throws start to turn instead of hitting true he gives up. He drops heavily next to Bobby, eyeing the bottle of booze.

"I don't want any," he says.

"Well good, 'cause I wasn't offering," Bobby says. Dean shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his lips. The silence between them isn't relaxing; there are too many things unsaid between them and far too much knowledge about the future for anyone's peace of mind. And Dean's can't shake the feeling that this is not how it was supposed to be.

"There's something wrong," Dean says. A sad, inaccurate summation but the words are all he has; he knows Mer's done something. He just doesn't know what. Bobby looks at him, amusement and pity filling the spaces of his face.

"Well that's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said," Bobby says. Dean glares at him but that's like firing a pellet gun at a mountain. "Son, things have been _wrong_ for a helluva long time. Not my fault you're just figuring it out."

Ellen takes stock of their surroundings trying to think like a vampire. This coven has set up camp in some abandoned warehouses, half of which are burned-out and clearly empty. The leader of the nearby town had asked them to come by in exchange for provisions and a good bit of refined oil.

"The building on the east side is protected from most of the sun. A couple of the windows are covered," Jo says.

"Sounds like we've got a winner. Ichi!"

"Yes ma'am."

"We have any blueprints for these buildings?"

"Nothing trustworthy, but it's better than nothing." The prints are just sketches, years old. The warehouse is half open floor and then a series of administrative offices.

"Right, well, ain't nothing we haven't seen before. Don't do anything stupid. Ash! On our six." Ash is pretty good with a gun but he's better at standing back and picking off problems than close quarters combat. He's also built a pair of heat and night vision goggles that lets him warn them. They have a system. It works.

The open area is standard vampire nest. Broken pieces of furniture, dirty mattresses, blood stains on everything. Shackles hang from the ceiling and come out from the walls and support posts. But it's empty.

"Move on," Ellen orders and they head towards the first door they see.

"Uh, anyone else smell that?" Ash asks nervously. It's impossible to miss, the rancid stench of something decaying. Could be bodies but vampires have a heightened sense of smell and while they don't mind death, they do mind decomp. But this doesn't smell like your normal decomp.

They approach the inner offices, doors closed tight. The smell gets stronger.

"Ash?" Ellen calls.

"Everything's cool," he says. No residual traces of heat.

"Watch yourselves," Ellen orders and they fan out into position. She nods as Ichi who takes a step back then kicks through the door, spinning off to the side while Jo and Ellen, using the wall as cover and dropping low to surprise anyone inside, take point.

They almost choke on the odor; it's so strong they can taste it on their tongues, heavy and disgusting. Ellen hears Ash heave in the background but that's the only sound. She jerks her head forward and Jo immediately moves in, Ichi covering her back. Ellen follows, shifting between covering them both.

It's a bloodbath.

Someone got here before them and ripped the nest to shreds. Literally. Those with heads intact have all exposed their fangs. There's not a single piece of furniture standing as it should.

"Mom," Jo says, backing into her.

"Yeah," Ellen says. This is not the work of any human. "We're getting out of here. Now."

They'd go but Ash is blocking the doorway. Ellen's senses are telling her that something's wrong; they're going haywire, actually, a cold sense of dread suffusing through her.

"Ash?" she says, trying not to startle him. He sways a little and takes a stuttering step forward. A dark stain spreads out on his shirt. Ellen knows before he even starts to fall the boy's dead.

"ASH!" Jo darts forward and catches Ash as he falls. A long, thin blade has been shoved under his ribs, up through his heart. Behind him is a little boy with curly red hair wearing baby blue checkered overalls. His eyes are completely white. Jo rocks Ash in her arms, a litany of denial spilling softly through her lips.

There are other figures in the room, too many. They could put up a good fight but she doesn't think they'll fair any better than the vampires. And despite Ash, Ellen's pretty sure the demons don't want them dead. That scares her most of all.

"This is going to be fun!" the little boy says, clapping excitedly. There's red blood all over the front of his gingham outfit.

"I always wanted a crystal ball," Sam says. He taps the side of the orb and grins when the dark, thick smoke inside butts against the glass trying to get to him. It's almost alive and it pulses with power, little lightening storms gathering in its depths and discharging, lighting up the cloud of smoke. It reminds him of the Smoke Monster from _Lost;_ Sam wonders idly if he could make a real Smoke Monster, a kind of guard dog let loose on the world to destroy all the pure of heart.

It took them six demons to make this one; he could probably get himself a real semi-intelligent monster with about fifty. Doable.

"We don't have time for distractions," Alastair says. "When Hell reigns on Earth, you may do whatever you want."

Sam strokes the glass tenderly, sees how it tries again to reunite with him. The purest essence of the demonic imbued with his own power. It wants to rejoin him, bind to him. Never leave him.

"Do you know the difference between may and can?" Sam picks up the orb with both hands and the smoke goes wild, torn between the twin contact points of his hands. He closes his eyes and concentrates on the power, wraps it up and draws it into himself, embeds it under his skin. He feels it settle, a living tattoo that moves restlessly over the expanse of his skin.

He brushes it with his power and feels it reach out for him; it would be so easy to accept it. But this is for Dean and he tells it that, whispers his name and feels the _want_ that knowledge engenders. It yearns for Dean in the same way he does and Sam promises soon. Soon.

He pulls his consciousness away, eager and pleased with himself. He feels Alastair's anger and jealousy at how easy it was for him. He revels in the smell of _desire_ and envy.

"When Hell reigns on Earth, I won't need anyone's permission."

He enjoys the way Alastair fails to hide his anger. Alastair is used to being the baddest boss on the block, and that's convenient for Sam who has no interest in delving into the politics of Hell. But Sam will not be controlled or manipulated. He spent most of his life dancing to his father's tune, and Dean had absorbed their father's obedience to the point that he let it tear them apart. Sam is not a pawn and he has more power than Alastair knows.

"Have you found a way to get to him?" There's no need for Sam to clarify who he's talking about.

"Oh yes." Alastair sweeps around, his most chilling smile on his face, ever the drama queen. "We found his favorite Mother-Daughter crime fighting team."

"And how are Ellen and Jo?" Sam asks.

"Alive," Alastair says with a disinterested shrug. Their relative well being is necessary to the plan, but aside from their value in that respect they hold no interest for him. The extra team member Alastair has claimed for himself. He'll make a find, upstanding demon.

"We have the bait. Where shall we lay the trap?" Sam stands before a large map of the world. It covers the expanse of the wall and someone has meticulously charted out every broken Seal on it. He lets his finger wander over the map until he comes to a small town most people would overlook. Yes. That'll do. Better yet, if Sam plays his cards right, it'll bring Dean running without a second thought.

"And they say you can never go home again," Alistair says, laughing.

Dean and Mary Winchester have been cutting a swath through the supernatural ranks. People nervously whisper stories of their exploits, the sheer fury with which they fell every evil thing that crosses their path, as if speaking about them brings down their wrath. Sometimes it must seem that way, news of their exploits arriving only moments before they do. So while it's not hard to track where they've been, it's much harder to predict where they'll go. But the moment Ruby sets foot in Stillwater, Arkansas, she knows they're around.

She's never known a hunter to affect the atmosphere of a place so much. Hunters survive by blending in, slipping from one guise to another, using the law to circumvent it. They track the changes in the atmosphere, the ripples amongst small communities, the portents that follow around the most powerful demons. They don't usually blanket a town in overt aggression, marking it as surely as Weres mark their territory.

It takes a bit of time to work her way through the ley lines protecting the town, but someone's come through before her, though she can't tell if they were coming or going. This town is close-knit but it doesn't have many magic users; these wards were forged by someone from the general area but not the town itself. They lack the strength that true attachment to the land and people brings. She finds the weak points and slips through them. She hesitates and then shores them up where she passes through, though keys herself into those sections. Wouldn't do to slow down a potential escape route.

The stench hits her the moment she crosses the final ward. There are several Abiku here, demons that eat children and then torture their parents by randomly appearing as their dead victims, giving hope where there is none. Some devour the parents when they've tired of their game.

And then, she feels the faintest pull of her own magic. She follows it but instead of hiding in the shadows she walks along the lit paths, ever alert. She's hoping whatever townspeople are left will mistake her for a hunter should they look out of their windows.

There's a loud crash as someone gets thrown into a metal trashcan and rolls onto the pavement. A small figure hurtles around the corner of a house, fingers extended like claws prepared to gouge. The person on the ground swings the can's lid like a shield. The metal crumples and the creature flies back, winded. Ruby approaches cautiously, not wanting to draw the attention of either party.

A loud shot sounds from down the street and that's the only reason Ruby sees the second small figure racing towards the first two. Mary Winchester isn't going to see it.

Ruby watches the creature gather speed, its eyes starting to glow a sickly yellow, fangs bared. She glances between where Mary grapples with her own opponent and the second creature.

She steps in and drives her knife into its belly. The creature gives a high, reedy scream and a black smoke, not dissimilar to her own incorporeal form, evaporates into the air. She yanks out her knife, the small body crumpling at her feet. Lucifer be damned, she hadn't realized they ate the bodies from the inside out.

She turns away to find a gun pointed at her face.

"Step back," Mary orders. Ruby wipes her knife on her jeans and does as she's told. The light from a street lamp falls across her face. Smart girl. She sees suspicious recognition flash through Mer's eyes. "I know you."

"You've changed." Ruby can see Mer's aura, muted by her abilities to shield her thoughts, but it's changed. There's something...a color pattern that's missing, she decides. One that was subtle but present, and she can't quite decipher what.

"That's enough," Mer snaps and her aura shifts. It's the damnedest thing, Ruby has never seen anything like it but it's almost like a mental block where one shows only a select set of thoughts or some repetitive, mundane image.

"How did you do that?" she asks before she can stop herself.

"Who the hell are you?" Mer snaps.

"I'm the girl that just saved your ass," Ruby snaps right bak. "And I'm here to help."

"But you're a demon."

"Don't be racist." The look on baby Winchester's face is priceless, affronted and indignant. Ruby smirks and sheaths her knife.

"Why should I trust you?" Mary asks, and Ruby refrains from pointing out that this is the second time the girl's pointed a gun at her and not pulled the trigger. Also...

"This is the third time I've saved your life." Mary scowls and makes a point to shift her grip on the gun. "But really, you shouldn't. I'm a demon. Manipulative's kind of in the job description."

"Third?" Mary says. "You miss those remedial math classes in Hell?"

Ruby makes a big point of counting on her fingers. "Well lets see. The high school, check. The baby-possessing family-torturing Abiku, check. And there was one more, what was it...oh, right. Your little show down with Sammy-kins that ruined _months_ of a very complex detoxification spell." That breaks through the kid's wall of badass.

"You..." She chokes, swallows loud enough Ruby can hear it. _"You_ were bringing him back?"

"Breaking down the foundations of the hold they had on him," she confirms. She sees the question coming from a mile away. "Won't work again, Alastair did a pretty thorough job of tainting every inch of him. If there's anything left of your Sam, it's buried so far you'll never find it. Or get close enough to work the spell."

"Why," Mary chokes, and her gun wavers precariously. "Why are you doing this?"

There are an infinite number of reasons and justifications she could give right now. Her first instinct is to tell her to go screw herself; she owes no one an explanation for her actions. But that would be counterproductive for what she's trying to accomplish. "Because I remember."

"And the rest of them don't?"

"That's what Hell is. Forgetting." And why that's what gets Mary Winchester to drop her gun Ruby will never know. Of course that's the moment her trigger-happy father comes careening around the corner. He misses a step when he sees them together, Mary's gun loose at her side. He breaks into a sprint when he realizes Ruby's not human.

"Dad-"

"Mer! Step back!" The only reason Ruby hasn't been shot is at this range he'd also hit Mary.

"Dad, would you-" He muscles Mer aside and Ruby steels herself for the blast, not sure she has enough in her to vacate the body she's inhabiting. Which means she'll either wake up recorporialized in hell or, depending on the mix, the ingredients will eat away at her true self until she expires. And that is not a way she'd choose to go; she'd helped Alastair run the tests on his underlings.

The blast almost deafens her, sharp and unforgiving, and something stings her cheek, but she's still in one piece. Not burning pain spreading through her, eating her from the inside out. She looks down at her chest, delightfully blood free with clothing in tact. Which is awesome because this shirt makes her chest look good.

She looks up at the Winchesters caught up in a detente. Mary has a hand on the barrel of Dean's shotgun, keeping it pointed at the sky instead of Ruby. Dean glares angrily at her, his jaw just about ready to shatter if he clenches it any harder.

"What. The fuck." Dean wrenches the gun out of Mary's grip but doesn't raise it, which Ruby counts as a point in her favor.

"I was having a civil conversation," Mer says.

"With a demon?"

"She's barely a demon."

"Hey!" Ruby protests. Mer gives her a flat look. "Okay, that may be a fair assessment, but you really don't have to rub it in."

"You found yourself an impotent demon?" Dean throws the comment at her, eyes narrow.

"Oh, you don't want to discuss _impotence_ with me, Dean-o." She has a lot to say about his twisted little relationship with Sam, and the fact that he never took any steps to protect his dreamstate from invasion. Dean growls and brings his gun up.

"Send me a postcard from Hell."

"Dad."

"No. I've let you get away with a lot because Ellen said-"

"Ellen? Why are you talking about me behind my-"

"_Said_ I should give you some space but this? Getting chummy with a demon? I will not let you-"

"Let me? You can't stop me, I'll do whatever I-"

"I've got the Horn of Gabriel." That pulls their attention to her with a snap, argument forgotten for the moment.

"Bullshit. Where?" Dean says suspiciously.

"Well not here, dumbass," Ruby says. "Is that the face you make when you're annoyed?"

"Yes," Mary says, and smiles like candy wouldn't melt in her mouth at the betrayed look Dean shoots her.

"And we're just supposed to believe you?" Dean scoffs.

"I believe her." Ruby stills under the weight of Mary's inspection. "But we don't want it."

"You don't?"

"We don't?" Dean looks like he's going to have an aneurysm.

"What are we going to do with it?" Mary asks. Which is a fair question. The Horn starts the end of the Apocalypse. Calls the forces of Heaven to battle. The opposite of their stated intention. Dean looks like he wants to protest so Ruby moves this scintillating conversation right along.

"I've got other things too. Also, there's something big going down that's probably got to do with Daddykins over here."

"Like what?" Dean says, posturing. Ruby rolls her eyes.

"Obviously, if I knew, I'd tell you. I'm not exactly Sammy's favorite person-"

She should have known that would break him. Dean shoves her back into a lamppost. It takes her a minute to remember how to breathe-and the fact that she kind of needs to is just bullshit-and Dean's gun is-

"Well aren't you a happy camper?" she says; her voice comes out husky due to the lack of air but it works. Dean's face twists into disgust.

"Never talk about him again." And wow, this is exactly like Sam.

"Touchy," she says with a smirk. She glances at Mary, her only real ally here, but she's closed off and hard. So she's found one of the lines, hard and immovable. She'll deal with Dean's attitude later; for now she just needs the in. "Fine. No sharing."

Dean lets Mary draw him away but if looks could kill Ruby would have spontaneously combusted.

"Keep the Horn safe. Whoever help us if we actually have to use this. And take this." Mary tosses Ruby a phone. "You need to get in touch-"

"I've got my ways," Ruby says, but pockets the phone. "I'll let you know if I run across anything interesting. Send you a list of the goodies you might want."

"You do that." Ruby nods and walks away.

"I don't trust you!" Dean calls after her. The frustration oozes out of him; this whole 'you have no control over me' thing Mary's got going on must be really new.

"Then you're smarter than you look, Dean-o!" she calls over her shoulder.

Anael pulls her true self back into her human body, tucks away her wings and takes a moment to orient herself. The area around her is bare, the plant life burned away by her power leaving only blackened earth. She wants walls around this place she's created and they appear, a building forming itself from the air. Utilitarian but functional. No windows.

She needs an altar and one rises from the ground. She places the various relics, oils, and sacred objects she's gathered over many years on the altar. Each one pulses with power and potential, chosen specifically for her needs. Before she begins she takes a moment to check on Castiel; she's set him on a rigged mission, one he cannot accomplish because she has the relic he seeks and she has laid down a false trail that will continue to propagate until she interrupts. He is well on his way

Satisfied, she prepares to begin. She lets her grace flow out, learns every nuance of this place and makes it her own. She maps the space with her eyes, notes each point, mentally overlays her design on the floor. She lights the incense used in the first tabernacle and kneels upon the altar until it permeates the air, the sign that her ritual may begin.

She walks the perimeter three times, her journey starting at the Eastern watchtower, Sealing the circle and all within to her power. With her outer perimeter established she begins to define the inner sections. She calls two triangles with apexes at the East and West; beginnings and endings intersecting. At their exact center lies her altar.

The lines she's drawn glow golden in the shape of a pentagram, imbued with her Grace. She opens wounds on her feet and hands and lets the blood spill onto the ground.

She retreats to the altar to prepare for the next leg and await the second day. This will be her last respite for the next two days, wherein she will use every ounce of power she has to finish her circle. She puts each of her chosen relics in the spaces they'll be used, then lays upon the altar to gather her strength.

At Dawn's song she rises and, walking along the lines she laid yesterday, stops at the North-Eastern Intermediary. Here where the Song of the World swells with the fresh sounds of morning she Calls the outer triangle and marks it with the blessed myrrh gifted Jesus Christ upon his birth, speaking words of Healing as she goes. Within the space she mixes her blood with the myrrh and draws symbols from a thousand different cultures, all of them representing life and health.

She works steadily, blending the Song into her work, until the day inexorably waxes into Noon, and the tenor shifts.

She rises and follows the line that connects the North-Eastern Intermediary to the South-Eastern point, pausing only to exchange the myrrh for a well of ink used by Mohammad Ibn Musa al-Khawarizmi, with which he changed the course of the world.

She uses the ink to Call this space and consecrate it to Teaching. She writes in whatever language strikes her the secrets of the world. Everything she thinks a General of the Apocalypse might need to know. Her Grace swirls with the ink and makes it sparkle, bits of incandescent silver mixing in with the black. At the height of its power the Sun influences the flow of her words, illumination of the mind and the land. She works even as the sun moves across the sky until her senses warn her that Dusk is fast approaching.

At the South-West Intermediary she Calls on Love. She has an arrow from the first Cupid's bow and a vial of Ananchel's tears. She etches reminders in the ground, that the greatest of these is love so that it will not be forgotten. She pours her own love and passion for humanity, with all of her Father's creation, into every stroke. She writes of the things she has witnessed, the wonder humans are capable of. For all of the horrors, there is such greatness here and that must never be overlooked.

She feels the approach of Midnight and stands. Her steps faltar and exhaustion sets in but she cannot stop; when she reaches for her fourth relic she sees that her fingers are cut, her blood making the arrow red. Appropriate.

She Calls for Judgement at the North-West Intermediary and Seals the three sides with the oil used to anoint Solomon at his crowning. She writes of Solomon, Daozang, Epictetus, Averroes, Socrates, Zuhuangzi, Mencius, Nagarjuna, and dozens of names that history doesn't remember. Wisdom and philosophy, all that which informs her actions, compiling a series of direct writings and first-hand memories and entrusting them to the earth.

With that Dawn comes again and she enters the final stage of her ritual.

She chooses four spaces on the outer perimeter and links them directly to her core, makes them syncs-empty repositories that thirst for her power. She buries a pinion feather, manifested into this world but so much more, at the center of each, then writes her very being into the ground. She bares everything to the world at large, each action she has ever made because this will be her judgment and her legacy.

It takes her half the day, which leaves her twelve hours to Call each of the Elements in order to Seal the Circle.

At the Northern point she invokes Air. The incense in the room, which has turned the entire room hazy with smoke, ripples and then contracts, the whole of it condensing into the Northern space.

She lights a match and sets the Fire triangle alight, its apex at the Eastern Watchtower. It burns bright, flames shooting up to the ceiling. When it calms, the ley lines are no longer gold but red and blue, the fire contained within them. Writing appears on the ground, ever changing as the fire consumes itself only to flair to life in the empty spaces, seeking new ground.

She uses the sweat from her own brow to invoke Water in the South, the space boiling and churning until it settles into a glassy, perfectly calm surface. She leans over to look at it and sees eddies beneath the smooth surface forming symbols and letters before swirling away.

Earth she invokes from the West. She drops soil from the Garden of Eden as the summons and watches as the area trembles and shifts, the topography morphing as mountain rise and fall, canyons gape wide then close in on themselves, pits and hills and plains, dips and valleys. Anael sees herself reflected in its mesmerizing movements.

She steps back until her legs hit the altar. She sits heavily, the exhaustion she's kept at bay by sheer force of will slamming into her. All that is left is to call the Spirit, to put the most powerful spell her kind has wrought to devastating effect. Not yet. Now, she will sleep. And when she wakes she will continue to fight.


	38. Book Three: Chapter 10

Dean punches the nearest wall, lets the pain cut through his fury and horror. There's an unbroken Seal in the other room and a pile of dead bodies. This Seal had required the sacrifice of 15 green-eyed virgins. Sam had sacrificed 14 and left the last one hanging from the ceiling, barely alive. Cutting him down had killed him.

It's the third such Seal they've found in as many weeks, unbroken but with a clear message attached.

Mer clears out of the room, jaw clenched and eyes hard. Danny and Trix trail after her looking stricken. Trix in particular's been having a hard time lately.

Dean glances at Bobby and Mills, busy cutting down the last body; the others are already laid out and covered with cloth. Dean watches them lay them down, nameless casualties in this war they're fighting. They range in age from preteens to a guy in his thirties, the only one they'd found with an ID: Wallace Chaffen of Missouri. Dean tucks the ID away; he'll drop it off at the next safe point so that someone can try and find his family. Give them some closure if not any relief. The others...their families will always wonder.

Dean feels his nails bite into his palms when Bobby throws lighter fluid over the bodies. This house will be the only grave Wallace and the others get. He watches the yellow flames lick over the floorboards and up the walls.

Bobby has to bodily drag Dean out of the house and into the yard. They stay and watch the house burn to make sure the fire doesn't spread. As the flames grow so does Dean's fury.

"We have to stop reacting." His words are quiet but everyone hears them. "We can't let-" He closes his eyes and sucks in a breath; the air is hot and tastes of ashes. He's been such an idiot thinking he could ever get Sam back. "We can't let Sam keep baiting us. We have to take the fight to him."

"You're a dollar short and a day late," Bobby says.

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, his hackles up.

"We've known where Sam holed up for a year, Dean. And in all that time you stayed as far away as you could with your thumb up your ass and now that Sam's in the wind you finally feel like doing something? It doesn't work like that, son."

"So this is my fault? If you felt that strongly you should've just called up your buddies and stormed the castle."

"Sometimes I wonder how hard your daddy dropped you on your head as a child. This whole thing revolves around you, Dean. You and Sam and your whole damn family. _There is no one else._ We take our cues from you because there's not a single hunter in this country who doesn't know the Apocalypse hinges on you. And don't try to pretend you don't know that. I let you get away with a lot, son, but don't you dare say _that_ to my face."

There's a part of Dean that wants to pitch a fit, stomp his feet and yell about how it's not fair. He's _one_person and _he_ is not responsible for the whole of the world. But in the glow of a house where fifteen people died to send him a message, Dean can't feel any truth in that.

He looks at Bobby, hair more silver than brown, deep lines in his face. Mer standing off to the side watching, inscruitible, a stranger he trusts with his life. He can almost see Ellen and Jo looking between them, glaring at him like he's fucked this all up, Jo's scar a livid reminder of the life they lead now. Missouri'd be right beside Bobby looking at him with sympathetic frustration, Kai beside her and far more unyielding. And all the nameless people who have died, horrifically, many directly because of him and the twisted messages Sam keep leaving him and Dean...

Dean still wants to save Sam. After all that, in the face of the wreck this world has become. Even though not sure there's anything left to save anymore.

Ruby gets a lucky break (for a certain value of "lucky") and catches Furcas, First Knight of Hell, after skulking along the edges of a battle with some angels. He's fatally wounded, but even so she's seen him giggle through a session with Alastair. So the fact that it hadn't taken much for him to tell her about Ellen and Jo and the "demonstration" being planned for Lawrence, Kansas worries her.

Wisely, she'd kept him alive long enough for Dean to hear it from the demon's mouth.

"You travel with an entourage now?" Ruby asks, eyeing the string of hunters trailing after Dean like ducklings.

"Shut up," Dean snarls, pushing past her. Ruby snarls back, feels her eyes go black with rage.

"Stop it," Mer hisses, shoving her out of the doorway. "We haven't told them."

"So I'm the Winchester family's newest dirty little secret, huh? Keep your father on a shorter leash if you want my help," Ruby says, wrenching her arm out of Mary's grasp. Mer spreads her arms dramatically, incredulous

"Um, hello? I'm the kid here."

"If you were any other family you might be able to get away with that one," Ruby says and stalks into the living, leaving Mer to follow behind her.

"-wish you were dead, Winchester," Furcas hisses. The wards she's put up around him are the only thing keeping him alive but he's dying by inches. His host has deep contusions all over it and the ropes have sunk into its skin. Some of the flesh is peeling away.

"Your lack of creativity is really insulting," Dean says. "Don't I at least deserve some unique threats?" Bobby rolls his eyes and continues to inspect the modified Devil's trap Ruby had created to keep Furcas talking long enough for them to hear.

"Ruby," Furcas spits out, globs of bloody phlegm dribbling out of his mouth. "You know the bounty on you is second only to his?" He starts to curse her in Latin and Etruscan, and Ruby finds herself in agreement with Dean: Furcas has no creativity. She smirks and etches a little sigil of her own making onto the ground and sighs in contentment when Furcas screams.

It doesn't take as long as normal to break him. This specialized Devil's Trap has sped up the process beautifully. It's not long until Furcas tells Dean, blood running from his eyes and nose, about the capture of Ellen and Jo, and the very public execution Sam's lined up for them.

"You boys hear what you needed to hear?" Ruby asks after the fourth description of what he'll do with her entrails.

Dean shrugs, "Ellen, Jo, Sam, Lawrence, everyone's going to die horribly. Same old, same old." His flippancy isn't fooling anyone.

"Good." She walks over and scuffs the outer part of the circle. Containment breaks with a loud crack and a visible flash of light. (Lucky for her this spell derives most of its power from the symbols and not her; she'd be on the floor right now were that the case.) Furcas explodes out of the body, his incorporeal form violently rending apart in the air and fading away before it hits the ground. It's probably a painful death. At least, that's how Ruby engineered the energy backlash to work. The body begins to collapse in on itself, decaying quickly without its demonic host.

"Where'd you find this?" Bobby asks, finally able to step into the circle and study it closer. It's brilliantly done, and includes a bunch of symbols he can't place. Some of which he's sure he's never seen before. It's a masterwork.

"I made it," Ruby says.

"_Made_ it?" Bobby looks at this slip of a girl who he's never heard of. "Who are you?" His tone's as close to awe as anyone's ever heard from him. Dean recoils because no way.

"This is Mary's demon friend," Dean says.

"Dad!" Mer yells. Bobby immediately aims his gun at the demon and curses when Mer steps between him and his target.

"Girl, are you out of your mind?" Bobby thunders. Mer's face shuts down, expression hard as granite, and settles in for a telling-to. Part of Dean can admit he finds it amusing how stone-faced Mer remains in the face of Bobby's righteous indignation. Though he's totally on Bobby's side. "Demons lie. They lie even when they tell the truth, what are you thinking? You shoot first and ask questions only if you have to. You don't make friends!"

"She is not my _friend._" The look on Bobby's face quite eloquently conveys his disbelief. "She's a source who just delivered some very important information and has gone out of her way to save my life several times. I don't trust her, but I won't ignore her, either. She's an asset."

"She is standing right here in all her demony glory." Ruby is, in fact, sitting on a table. "Oops, wait, I lied."

"We can't believe anything she says, and I sure as hell don't trust that other one's information now," Bobby says. Dean twitches because while pointing a gun at Ruby is respectable, no one gets to point one at his kid. "How do we know they aren't working together? That this isn't an elaborate ruse to get you both to rush head long into danger?"

"It doesn't really matter. Sam's going to Lawrence." Dean steps forward and forces Bobby to lower his weapon.

"We don't know that," Bobby starts.

"I know that." He glances at the demon and wishes she were anywhere else because this particular conversation is far too revealing. "That's where it started. That's where we returned. That's where it's going to end." They always end up back in Lawrence. Like homing pigeons. "We can scry for Ellen and Jo to confirm, but they're there. And it is a trap."

Dean knows it's a trap. Bobby knows it's a trap, which he repeats for about an hour straight in the ensuing bitchfest. And then Ruby agrees with him, which sparks an epic bout of scowling, but not a reversal of opinion. A five year old would know it's a trap. Which means the demons who have Ellen and Jo-i.e, Sam-know that Dean knows that it's a trap. So really, it's not a trap. It's a dare.

Everyone also knows Dean's going anyways.

Ruby tags along with them. Or, rather, she pops up where they've made camp whenever the hell she feels like it and almost gets shot every single time. Dean suspects she's grooming them because Bobby has given up complaining, though both he and Rufus-the only other hunter in the know-keep their guns in plain view. Ruby just smirks at them in her infuriatingly demonic way.

Their plan of action, for what it's worth, is to descend as a group and go in guns-blazing. In Ruby's opinion this is less a rescue mission and more group suicide but no one's listening to her.

"I need a weapon," Dean says. "Something that can kill..." He can feel the judgment all around him as he's unable to finish his thought.

"Hell's favorite Lilim?" Ruby suggests blithely and Dean fucking hates her.

"What's a lilim?" Rufus asks. Save for his hand always being on his gun while she's around, he's taken to treating Ruby like any other hunter.

"Sam," Ruby answers blithely. Dean rises up, radiating violence, and Mer drags him back, glaring at Ruby. Ruby raises her hands defensively, but can't help the instinctive smirk. Baiting Dean is just so much _fun._ "Lilim, capital-L. Mamma's favorites. Little-L lilim are just Lilith's bitches, the demons she took a fancy to. Sam? Lilith gave everything to him."

"Oh, hell," Bobby says, paling.

"Yep," Ruby says, sounding like a proud school teacher, "got it in one. Good boy."

"What?" Dean demands. He really doesn't like Bobby's tone.

"Lilith was the first demon Lucifer created after he Fell," Bobby says, voice shaking. "Lucifer...gave unto her the essence of himself so that she might defile the world." Dean looks at Bobby blankly. Clearly a quote, but he doesn't know what it means.

"Sammy is running around with a giant sliver of Lucifer's Grace inside him," Ruby says when it becomes clear none of the rest of them have two brain cells to rub together. God, the amount of prevaricating and the self-deceit in this group. She blames Dean's handlers, mostly; they'd let him wallow in his delusions, let him convince himself that he could save Sam, that the man he knew would magically reappear and oust the darkness of Lucifer's taint. None of them will ever acknowledge that she's the_only one_ who came close to stopping this whole thing. And then baby Winchester fucked it all up.

She watches Dean closely, sees the weight of her revelation settle over him. The anguish, the shock and pain. Watches him pack it away until he's not so torn between family and duty. There's no overbearing guilt or torment left. He feels nothing. It's both impressive as hell and really fucking disconcerting.

"How do I stop him?" She can hear the emptiness in his words and wonders that none of the others can. Mer's wrapped up in her own little world of teenage angst but Bobby should know better. If it gets Sam dead Ruby's not too concerned about it, she just needs him to hang on to the numbness long enough to put a bullet in his brother; but these things have a way of making people behave in unpredictable manners.

"I got you covered." Ruby reaches behind her back and tosses a very old gun onto the table, one of the relics she liberated from Sam's various lieutenants. A Colt Texas Paterson six-shooter, rotating barrel, skitters across the polished wood. Old, well-maintained. Etchings in the metal. Kills anything.

"Aw, you shouldn't have," Mer says with a false smile; she shoots Dean a quick, assessing look but his eyes are riveted on the gun.

"This, you condescending jackass, is a _special_ gun," Ruby says, speaking slowly and with great care. She watches Mer open herself to the gun, probing it and feeling its magical spark. She shivers, just a bit, at the weapon's potency. Idiot child. "Samuel Colt, Halley's Comet, boring details and voila! Once in a lifetime gun that can kill anything. There is only one."

"You expect us to believe this?" Bobby asks.

"I come in good faith," Ruby says mockingly.

"Yeah, because demons are so trustworthy," Rufus butts in, crossing his arms over his chest. That's the first thing he's said about it, and his tone isn't any different than any other time he's talked to her.

"I had a friend like you once." Ruby taps her lip with her finger, then snaps her finger in an overly dramatic 'ah ha!' moment. "I suddenly remember why I killed him." Rufus and Bobby give her twin glares of loathing. Ruby shivers like it sends little tingles up her spine.

"Can we move on?" Mer demands. How she ended up the mature one in this group is beyond her comprehension. "How does this work?"

"Point, big bang, death."

"You're sure?" Mer asks, looking at the gun with suspicion; her gaze flicks between her father and the gun. Dean continues boring holes into the gun on the table. "Even...even Grace?"

"I think that counts as 'anything.' It's a hot little number. Stole it from this bitch named Meg. You should probably watch out for her, she's vengeful. Anyhoo! You've got seven shots to kill little Sammy before you're fucked."

Dean picks up the gun and turns it over. _Non timebo mala._ I will fear no evil. There's a pentagram etched on the butt of the gun and when Dean dumps the bullets in the hand they're warm to the touch. They each have numbers etched on them, and he lines them up with the spare sitting on the table. Seven through thirteen.

Dean's going to kill his brother with it.

They stage out of a small two-story hotel thirty minutes outside of Lawrence. Dean plots out the last few 'Seals' they chased down and realizes that Sam has been leading him here, a straight line across the country to the little town in Kansas they can't seem to break away from.

Bobby and Rufus work their way through their mutual rolodexes to fill out their strike force. They end up with twenty people prepared to stage a suicidal search-and-destroy mission. There had been more, people willing to risk their lives to end this war, who were willing to put their faith in Dean to do the right thing. They'd tried to summon the angels, but neither of them responded to prayers or summons. Figures they're going into their first major action against Samael with a demon as back up.

Bobby quietly verifies the provenance of the gun. They kill a demon with it and somehow Bobby digs up Samuel Colt's very own journal-man's got a system for post that the government would envy even before Sam fucked up the world-a hundred years old and one of the most thorough hunting manuals Dean's seen since his father's. He reads a little about how Colt made the gun, but most of it goes beyond him; the hunting though, his cases? Dean feels a kinship to the man even through the space of years, which is a weird and foreign feeling to him. Bobby mutters something about Sams that Dean chooses not to hear.

Ruby claims she knows a way to mute Sam's powers, even the playing field a little. They're all skeptical but Bobby verifies that the spell, at the very least, can't hurt. It won't hold for long, either, but a bullet from a Colt revolver travels at roughly 800 feet per second so they don't need all that much time.

And now they're thirty minutes from a house he never wanted to see again, gearing up for a battle he's been trying to avoid.

Dean moves by rote-he assembles shotgun cartridges, casts and consecrates silver bulltes, soaks all his clothing and anything absorbent in holy water. He adds the hex bag Ruby offers to his collection with prudent trepidation, though neither he, Mer or Bobby can find anything evil about them.

Dean introduces himself to all the hunters Bobby and Rufus have pulled in, every one of them with that grizzled, paranoid glint Dean recognizes from his father.

They'll be ready to move out in the morning.

Dean sharpens his knife, mostly because he's too wired to sleep just yet and he needs something to do with his hands. Something to concentrate on. He senses Mer hovering in the doorway but ignores her until she comes up beside him.

"We could wait. For Anna and Cas."

"No." He's fought the supernatural without angelic back up for most of his life. They want to pick and choose when they show up that's fine. But he's not relying on any help from them.

"He might not be here-"

"He's here." Dean knows that with absolute certainty. Mer falls silent, but there's a weight to her silence. Dean puts down the knife and whetstone, his signal for her to say whatever she's here to say.

"Can you do this?" Dean pauses, the weight of her question seeping into him. It's been years since anyone's questioned his abilities. He almost forgot what that felt like, having to justify every decision, his movements weighed and judged and constantly found wanting. He resumes his sharpening with carefully controlled savagery, the grate of metal on stone loud in the silent room. She turns to go and he lets her. She feels more and more like a stranger. She pauses at the threshold and Dean holds his action, waiting.

"You think he'd rather die than let whatever's inside him keep riding his meatsuit around?"

He waits until she's out of the room before letting the knife fly. It slams into the wall, buried to the hilt at head height.

He stares at it for a long moment before yanking his shirt off and climbing into bed. For the first time in over a year, Dean falls asleep because he wants to.

He wakes up by a lake, the sand beneath him warm from the sun (which isn't too hot) and his wrap-around sunglasses protecting him from the light. A breeze keeps him from getting overheated and water laps gently against the rocks. There's a pier framed between his feet, a couple of fold-out chairs and some rods there if he wants them.

Dean toys with the thought of taking a dip, getting wet and losing himself in the swim. It's one of his favorite forms of exercise, and not easy to do regularly with his lifestyle. But that would also require him to move which would be really dumb considering how comfortable he is.

He feels a shadow fall over him, blocking the sun and giving him a small chill. He frowns.

"Move it, gigantor. You're blocking my sunlight."

"Oh?" Dean grunts when dead weight lands on his stomach. He pushes at Sam's chest, but the asshole snatches his glasses off and tosses them over his shoulder.

"Sammy-" Sam cuts him off with a demanding, hungry kiss. Dean doesn't try to fight, gives everything Sam throws at him right back. Dean uses his legs to flip them over, but Sam's having none of that and they go rolling into the water. Dean lands on top, his knees clamped around Sam's hips. He winds his fingers in Sam's hair and pulls him up into a kiss.

It's hot and wet and totally unrefined. They rut together and Dean laughs breathlessly when he realizes Sam's in a black speedo that's peeling away from his body with every move.

"Sammy," Dean says, amusement audible in his words.

Dean smiles and sweetens the kiss, turns it playful and seductive. He feels and hears Sam's laugh against his lips, nips and Sam's lower lip. He pulls back and gently curls his fingers around Sam's skull, the pads resting right behind his ears. His thumbs caress the vulnerable orbital bones, across Sam's cheeks. Lets everything he feels for Sam show through, unguarded. Sam's breath catches, his hands around Dean's hips tightening.

"What?" Sam asks, voice low and reverent. Dean leans in, right against Sam's ear.

"I'm coming for you," Dean says, and twists Samael's neck until it cracks.

Dean stands at the window, facing in the general direction of Lawrence, and lets the seconds slide by. Everyone else is asleep, the motel silent in preparation for tomorrow. He should be probably sleeping but that may never happen again. He can still feel Sam's neck breaking under his hands. Hear the vertebrae pop.

He can do this. He _will_ do this.

The smooth metal of the Colt presses into the skin at his hip. He imagines _non timebo mala_ branded indellibly into his skin. I will fear no evil. It says nothing of love.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye and turns, drawing the Colt in the same motion. It's Anael.

"Dean."

"Where the hell have you-"

"You must leave. Now!" She looks...frantic. Discomposed. Her hair is out of place and her eyes are wide. "They have ch-" She disappears with a flash, torn away from the world, her startled expression lingering in Dean's mind. There's a moment of complete calm and then all of the windows shatter, an unnatural wind filling the room and disrupting their salt lines. The building shakes, the floors and ceilings cracking so the devil's traps are rendered useless.

Dean realizes with sickening clarity just how well he's been played.

He thought Sam would play by the rules and wait for them on the battlefield. And he might have, because Sam is nothing if not dramatic, but Dean had to go and have the last word. They'd let themselves feel safe here, to take a breath before battle and they're too spread out and careless.

The first demon launches itself through the window and Dean stabs him through the eye with his knife. It's followed quickly by two more, black-eyed cannon fodder. Dean throws his bag of salt at the first one and shoots the other one in the face with a blessed silver bullet. He stabs them both, up through the chin and into the brain.

He's busy redrawing the devil's trap underneath the sill when he hears the distinctive sound of a demon dying coming from behind him. He throws himself to the side and comes up in a crouch, and wings his target.

"You." He considers shooting her again on principle; he doesn't trust Ruby, information and dead demons aside. But the enemy you know is better than the one you don't, though he won't let her see his back.

"You're welcome," Ruby says, wiping a wicked looking knife on the demon she just killed. She shoots an annoyed look at the graze on her shoulder. "You need to leave. Sam's on his way."

"Then get away from me," Dean says, stashing as many weapons as he can carry on his person while never looking away from her. Ruby grabs him by the arm.

"We don't have any way to mitigate Sam's power. We have to run."

"This is what we wanted," Dean says, shoving her away. "We're ending this, one way or the other."

"I really don't think you fully appreciate how powerful he is. Because it's going to be _the other."_ Dean primes his handgun pointedly and double checks the Colt's barrel. "Fine."

She spins on her heel and stalks towards the door. He lets her take point and clear the hall; better she get picked off than him. She motions him forwards and Dean steps cautiously through the doorway. Nothing's moving, the halls empty and silent. He notices that Ruby's eyes are black and wonders, not for the first time, what exactly that means for demons. He doesn't hear any gunshots or sounds of fighting which means everyone else is dead, or they've taken great pains to isolate him.

"Since you're dedicated to this awful plan, we need to get to the ballroom. I can try and cast the binding spell from there."

"Oh, I think its a little too late for that." Sam steps into the corridor and Dean's first reaction-after the ingrained aiming of his gun-is pure, unbridled lust. Sam cracks his neck as he undresses Dean with his eyes, and Dean flushes. "How ya doing, big brother?"

"Seriously?" Ruby says. Dean glares at Ruby, who drops her gaze pointedly to Dean's crotch and this is_so not the time._ "You boys went through all that just to make moon eyes at each other?"

"I don't think we need an audience. Do you, Dean?" Sam asks. He raises his hand and makes an indolent twisting motion. Ruby's neck breaks, twisted almost all the way around, and her body falls to the floor, paralyzed. But not dead. Trapped, conscious in a body she cannot move, facing away from the action. "Alastair will pick you up. Eventually." Inside, Ruby rages and seethes, but there's nothing she can do. She slowly sinks into herself trying to find some hidden reserve of power that might save her life.

"I'm surprised you let her anywhere near you, Dean. That's not your style." Sam takes off the jacket and hangs it on a light fixture. The top few buttons of his maroon shirt are open showing a bit of skin. There's a cream pocket square in his breast pocket. A target.

Dean shoots Sam right through the heart before he can stop himself. Sam stumbles back and blinks. He looks down at the perfect round hole in his button-up and handkerchief, expression slipping into betrayal as he presses his hand over his heart. He looks back up at Dean. And tisks.

"You honestly thought that would work." Sam digs around with blunt fingers, not even flinching, and comes up with a slightly bloody bullet.

_Bitch lied about the gun,_ Dean thinks, numb. Sam flicks the bullet away and turns his attention to the Colt. Dean jerks forward as the gun goes sailing into Sam's hand. It looks small and fragile.

"I've been looking for this," Sam says, and tucks the gun in his pocket. "Someone stole it." He glances at Ruby and Dean hears the unmistakable sound of bones cracking and tendons snapping. Her body jerks and emits a high, pained noise that makes Dean's skin crawl. Sam looks entirely too pleased with himself and begins straightening his clothes: re-positioning the pocket square, pulling down his cuffs, fixing the hole in his shirt. Slicking back his hair. And only when he's done does he looks to Dean, held captive by his own inertia.

He starts his perusal at Dean's feet and Dean feels every second of it. Feels when Sam lingers on his crotch, on the tattoo over Dean's heart and the curve of his neck. A smile slides across Sam's face. It lacks any warmth or affection, any humor-it's a purely predatory expression that makes Dean's blood run cold.

"Look at you." There's palpable hunger in the words, a possessive undercurrent Dean responds to. Has always responded to.

The anti-possession tattoo starts to burn. Dean gasps and claws at his shirt, suddenly too scratchy and heavy against his skin. The material tears in his frantic effort to get it off and away but it doesn't matter it just needs to be gone and-he watches in horror as the ink of his tattoo rises to the surface, bubbling up, and oozes down his chest, a dark maroon color because it's mixed with his blood, until all that's left behind is a raised red burn, angry and throbbing. Mindlessly Dean raises his hand to touch it but his wrist is forced away by something hard and unyielding. Inhuman. Its touch fills him with revulsion and that's Sam-or whatever Sam has become.

"No touching," Sam says mildly. Dean can only stare as he's manipulated my Sam's power, his hands pinned at his side, feet rooted to the earth. His speechlessness though, that's all Dean's fault.

How had he missed this?

Sam moves around him, taking him in but not touching. He's close enough to smell but all Dean gets is sulfur.

"I made something from you," Sam says, stopping in front of him. "And really, fair is fair." He starts to take off his shirt, one button at a time in an indecent striptease. He lets the material drop and Dean...Sam's got tribal tattoos over his entire body. Which is almost unnaturally muscular, like Sam on Hell-flavored steroids. But that doesn't stop part of Dean from wanting to trace the contours of every muscle, find out how far down the tattoo goes. Dean closes his eyes, trying to organize his swimming thoughts. They're sliding away too quickly, he shouldn't be this compromised. He starts when Sam tenderly strokes the back of his fingers over Dean's cheek, his lips, eyes flying open.

"Don't fight it." And this time he feels Sam slip into his head, chase away coherency. Take away his choice.

"Sammy. Please." Sam leans in close and Dean can feel the warmth of his breath. The kiss is gentle and barely there. Dean hates the way he yearns to give into it even now.

Sam's lips move to his ear, the tip of his tongue lightly tracing the shell.

"Everything has been for you," Sam whispers. Dean jerks but he can't say whether it's towards Sam or away from him. "Everything." Dean flinches and his body is pulled up, stretched on an invisible rack until he's splayed out, the muscles of his neck chorded and tense.

Sam steps back, a twisted smile on his face and spreads his arms. The tattoos wrapped around his body start to move, swirling and writhing over his body and they're not tattoos, they're _alive._ Eager. The darkness flows into his hands and then out, rising up, coalescing in front of him, leaving Sam's skin pale and unmarked.

It solidifies into a ball and everything in Dean cringes from it. It's made of...made of evil, that's the only word Dean can think of. A swirling, living mass of everything terrible in the world that Dean can _sense._It fills him with dread and he knows what Sam's going to do with it.

"Sam," Dean says, desperate and frightened. The ball spins and move and it's not alive like the demons he's seen, but it's close. So close. And Dean can't get away. "Sam, don't do this."

"Don't worry," Sam says. He's smiling but it doesn't reach his eyes. They're devoid of anything human. "You're mine." And the ball surges forward and Dean can feels himself being subsumed. It slides into him, sneaking under his skin, into his eyes and mouth and nose and ears and down into his bones. It settles in him, eating away at Dean's core, and the goodness there; at Dean's soul. Leaving him changed.

His vision starts to grey, the colors dimming and he sees Sam's smile again, the wrong one though he can't remember why it's wrong. He breathes and he can feel the air in his lungs, in then out. It's getting hard, though, but he's not afraid; he's not even sure he still needs to breathe. He can smell so many different things in the air, different people and demons. Deep in one corner of his mind, as-yet untouched by the smoke, what's left of Dean screams for help. This is his worst fear come to pass, multiplied by a thousand. He's not being possessed by a demon, he's becoming a demon.

He senses something off to one side, that pulls at what's left of him like a magnet, and he slowly—why is the world around him so _slow?_—turns his head.

He recognizes the girl there, the young woman with long blonde hair and green eyes that are so vibrant against the grey of the world it hurts to look at her. But he does, focuses on her because there's something he remembers even though he's forgotten himself.

"Mer," he breathes, and it comes out as a plea even though he's not quite sure what he's asking her for. He reaches out for her, begs her silently until that last thought is consumed by that terrifyingly angry blankness. All the colors fade to grey and then there's nothing as Mary Winchester raises her gun and shoots her father in the head.

Dean falls to the ground, limp and broken. Like his strings have been cut, clouded eyes staring at the ceiling. For a moment he's calm in death, still as he rarely was in life. Then his body jerks spasmodically as the demonic essence in him is obliterated by the powerful spell woven into the bullet, his nerve endings firing one last time. He is gone, completely. There is no soul for Heaven to reincarnate or for Hell to summon.

Dean Winchester is no more.


	39. Book Three: Chapter 11

The world should stop. Freeze in its rotation, pause in its mourning, do something dramatic to mark what just happened. Mer waits for it, but she's still breathing, the world's still spinning.

Bobby and Rufus round the corner at a sprint and almost careen into Mer, braced in her shooting stance with her gun still raised. They register Sam on the other side of the room, rigid and staring down at the body crumpled on the floor in disbelief. At Dean. Bobby finally registers the dark red hole in the center of Dean's forehead.

"Mer," Bobby says softly, horrified. She doesn't move or react, just stares at her father. "Oh, Mary."

Her gaze drifts towards him, her movements slow and dissociated, not really registering anything around her. Bobby can't help but glance back at Dean and she mimics him, looking back at the scene. There's so little blood. She starts to shake.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, a tear rolling down her cheeks, and it breaks Bobby's heart because this was anything but her fault. He reaches out and gently takes the gun.

Sam slides to his knees, mouth open in a silent scream but projecting so much pain even Bobby feels it settle in his bones. Mer gasps and stumbles back, clutching at Bobby's arm, and swaying. She won't look away even though her nose starts bleeding.

Sam lurches forward on his hands and knees and gathers Dean to his breast, a high, wrenching wail starting deep in his chest, ripped out of him, a primal sound of savage loss. Bobby doubles over, clutching his head; the sounds cuts through him and the maelstrom of Sam's emotions threatens to subsume him. His own grief is dwarfed by what he feels from Sam. One of Bobby's eardrums bursts and he tastes copper at the back of his throat; he vaguely registers Rufus collapsing beside him, body shaking with seizure. The disorientation soon forces him to his knees and his brain might melt out of his head.

His vision swims, but he feels Mer let go and move away. He flails after her but it's a lost cause. He forces his eyes open and can just make out the blobs that must be Sam and Mer but he can't track them. Sounds fight through the pain, warped and indistinct, he can't make sense of them... And then the world explodes in silence.

The force throws Bobby against the wall, Rufus slamming into him a moment after. Debris rain down on them but there's till no sound. He passes out and the next thing he knows he's blinking grit from his eyes and the world is tinged pink. He must have popped a blood vessel in his eye.

He doesn't remember how to breathe at first, the wind knocked out of him. His first, shuddering breath is filled with dust. Coughing hurts and Rufus is lying on his stomach. He shoves Rufus off and performs a perfunctory field assessment: man's got a head wound, his shoulder's dislocated, and a few serious lacerations where bits of hotel struck but Bobby knows for a fact the old codger's had worse. Bobby stumbles to his feet. He flinches as his hearing rushes back, the tinnitus loud. His balance is off.

It looks like a very big bomb went off, which for all he knows is the truth. Bobby stumbles forward, swaying without the wall for support, and gapes at the carnage. The wall that had been behind Sam is completely gone, the roof's caved in and rubble lies haphazardly on the ground. There's no sign of Sam. In fact, there's no sign of any Winchester.

"Mer!" Bobby calls, but it comes out a harsh, unintelligible croak. "Mary!" He shifts through the rubble. The stones tear up his fingers but he keeps searching, looking for a sign. He pulls a muscle shoving a large slab of cement aside. There's nothing under it. Nothing at all.

He freezes, his lizard brain warning him to stay still and silent, as small as possible. The hair on the back of his arms lifts, responding to some subtle shift in the air that sets his senses on edge. It feels like someone's walked over his grave. He needs to get Rufus and regroup.

Mer snaps out of her daze when Sam lurches towards her father's body. He's broadcasting his pain strong enough to overload her psychic senses but she's still more coordinated than he is; she was expecting this, after all. She marshals all her energy and flings Sam away from the lifeless body in his arms.

Sam leaves a dent in the wall and comes up angry. He moves fast, almost too fast for her to track, and lashes out, landing a hard blow to the side of her face. But there's no thought behind his flailing and she avoids his other blows. She sweeps his feet from under him and, making sure she stays between Sam and her father, follows up with a solid right hook to his nose, the full weight of her power behind it. It knocks Sam back, his body convinced he's drowning as blood floods his sinus cavities, and earns her enough time to scramble to her father's side.

Sam spits blood onto the floor and snarls, rolling into a crouch. He glares at the person who murdered what was his and he _hates._ She stole Dean and hid him away, then killed him just when Sam was going to get him back. Sam wants nothing more than to make her pay, to feel his pain and hundredfold. He feels his power rise through him wild and unchecked. It crackles beneath his skin, his rage feeding it and he wants this to _hurt._

"You will regret this," he says, the words a heavy twist on his tongue. His eyes smolder; Mer swears she can see the fires of Hell in their depths.

"You first," she snarls back. She says the words Anael taught her, her High Enochian inelegant but passable. The sigil Anael set on Mer's back with her own Grace activates, a cold so deep it burns.

They disappear just as Sam's power breaks loose.

They manifest a few feet above the ground and Mer can't hold back the cry of pain when she hits the hard-packed earth, the dead weight of her father's body landing hard on top of her. Something gives in her arm but there's no time to dwell on it; the faster she can get him to Anael the better off he'll be. They're in front of a building in the middle of a wooded glade. No path in or out, no signs of civilization.

She slings him over her shoulder and staggers towards the door. She has to kick it open and almost falls back when the body pulls her off balance. Her _father's_ body. Mer fights off the panic that threatens to overwhelm her because if this doesn't work-

It _has_ to work. There is no other option.

"Anael!" The inside of the warehouse is dim; there are no windows and only one light source hanging over a raised table in the center of the room. Mer works her way towards it, muscles burning with every step. "Anael!" She lays her father down upon the altar, wincing at the graceless thump he makes, and takes a moment to arrange his arms so they fold across his chest.

"Is it come to this already?" a voice breathes from the shadows and Mer spins around, heart racing. Anael is half cloaked in darkness, her face obscured. Mer steps forward nervously, one hand anchored to her father, afraid if she lets go he'll disappear.

"Jesus, Anael. I got him here as fast as I could, what do we need to do?" Anael steps into the pool of light, past Mer and right up to the altar. She runs her fingers through Dean's hair, an odd smile on her face.

"Hello, Dean." Mer makes a frustrated noise. When they'd come up with this crazy scheme, Anael had impressed on her the importance of _time._ Every second counts, hence the incredibly painful process of letting Anael mark her, Grace burning into her mortal skin like the worst of burns. And now they're here and Anael is wasting what little they have.

"Anna," Mer pleads. Something in her is urging her to back away. Whispering at her to run.

"I'm sorry," the angel says, still smoothing Dean's hair. Mer's sense of unease grows. Anael looks drawn in spite of the beatific smile on her face. Her eyes seem strangely unfocused, as if she's looking at something Beyond.

"For what?" Mer asks, voice small and bewildered. "I don't—we have to save him, you said this would save him, we _do not have time for this."_ Anael ignores her, leaning over to kiss Dean's head in benediction, right over the entry wound. Warning bells are going off, there's something very wrong here, but Mer can't bring herself to leave the only chance she has to save her dad and what the fuck is Anael's problem? This is not the time for an angelic breakdown. This is not the time for _Mer_ to breakdown and she's barely hanging on.

Anael stands and turns to Mer; she has tears gathering in her eyes. Mer has never seen an angel cry. Anael lets her gaze trace the contours of Mer's face; coming from a creature capable of taking in the whole of creation it is a most disconcerting sensation.

"You were never supposed to exist." Mer feels like she's falling without anything to stop her, the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach growing with every breath. Anael reaches out and cups her cheek. She wants to move away, to run, but she also needs to see this through because it's the only way, so she remains frozen in place, caught in a spiral of deeply conflicting emotions.

"What?"

"Neither side expected you. None of them knew how you fit, didn't know what to make of you. How could they? You were the biggest diversion I could come up with." Anael smiles, brilliant and carefree, so at odds with the tears tracking down her face.

"Anna..." Mer says, the emotions she's been repressing shoving at her control. She _shot her father in the head._ She shot him and now Anael is telling her-she's not sure but she can't think about it now because her father is _dead_. "Did you lie to me?" The bullet had been made from the Spear of Longinus and consecrated with a willing sacrifice, her willing sacrifice, which Anael had _sworn_ would allow them to resurrect him. The guilt Anael allows her to see is like a knife in her heart. She steps back, away from her father, away from what she's done.

"Dean should have been the one. The only one, with Sam as his counterpoint. I watched him for so long. It took so many of us to keep them alive, to keep them both safe. The road to Paradise was well paved but all it took was a spark and you came along and there were possibilities, so many, we couldn't track them all. You could have travelled so many different paths-you could have been Heaven's or Hell's or no one's. There was no easy place to put you, my brilliant little monkey wrench." Anael reaches out again and brushes away a tear. Mer hadn't realized she'd been crying, tears slipping freely down her cheeks. She jerks away but Anael is relentless, pulls Mer close into a smothering hug. "It was supposed to be Sam and Dean. At the Final Battle, just Sam and Dean facing each other, brother to brother. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, amen. But for _you._"

Mer feels the tendrils of angelic power, subtle but there, nudging at the edges of her consciousness. Her back itches. She realizes that the space around her has gradually grown brighter, light coming from below, and looks down. There are symbols etched on the ground, some she recognizes but most are older than recorded history, filling every available inch. They stretch to the end of the warehouse, illuminated by a growing gold glow, and hum with devastating power.

She needs to be as far away from here as possible. She feels that certitude in every cell of her Anael-inspired being.

"Anael, what are you doing?" Mer asks. Her voice comes out horse and trembling.

"I hope..." Anael shakes her head and steps back. She reaches into her jacket and pulls out a short silver sword. "I hope you'll forgive me this one day." The runes blaze, their hum turning into a crystalline song. Mer turns and runs.

Anael drives her sword into her heart.

The warehouse burns as bright as the sun, Anael's power and the force of her sacrifice igniting the symbols in a holy conflagration. They ignite with a sharp white flame. Mer screams and is consumed.


	40. Book Three: Chapter 12

There's energy everywhere. Even in the vacuum of space where A=4π*R^2=4π*[G(2*M/c^2)]^2=4π*G^2[(4*M^2)/c^4]=16π*G^2(M^2\C^4)

Darkness isn't visible it's...the closest word she has is _luminous_ but that's wrong, so wrong, because it's actually L=σ*A*T^4=[(2*π^5*k^4)/(15*h^3*c^2)]*A*T^4

When she turns her head she sees H=-(h^2/2m)∫d^3*r∮(r)∇^2∮(r)+1/2∫d^3r∫d^r'∮(r)∮(r')U(|r-r'|)∮(r')∮(r)

The world is so much more complex that she ever thought. She can see how it fits together at the smallest level, a place for everything and everything in its place. She looks at her hand and stares in wonder. Past the skin to the pull of the muscles, the tendons and the bones, to the very cells beneath. A complex formula slides into the fold of skin at her knuckle, reappears on the other side, a language so precise there's no room for misinterpretation but mistakes are devastating.

She breathes in and can feel the air moving in her lungs, oxygenating her cells, her blood rushing through her veins to different parts of her body and knows that too. She could probably track the path of a single cell if she wanted. Might be able to look farther, to the very stuff that makes up the universe if she wants. Could lose herself in-

The language twists and whines at being forced to accommodate another being and there's an angel here. She snarls and melts into the shadows, becomes a shadow. She can't remember why she hates them, but they fill her with fury.

Castiel feels the moment Anael dies. He's battling alongside a few of the Chosen in Jerusalem at her order, trying to prevent Alastair from completing the Destruction of 144,000 Faithful-all pilgrims to the Holy City unexpectedly battling for their lives. It's one of the more powerful Seals on Lucifer's prison.

He leaves the battle without hesitation.

The land is charred and dead, burned out not only by the sheer amount of power that flowed through it but the way it was released. The remnants are still ebbing, sinking into the Earth itself, and this is not the byproduct of an angelic demise. Anael's death resonates disharmoniously, a psychic imprint that will take a millennia to fade. What has happened here goes against everything in his Father's plan.

There's a warehouse in the center of the blast radius, but it barely exists, the barest suggestion of walls; Anael had willed it into being and her hold is fading. The acidic smell of ozone and sulfur invades his senses. Castiel steals himself to step over the threshold. The wrongness crawls over him but he ignores it.

There's an altar at the center of the room and Castiel can make out a body laid upon it. He can't sense much else, as limited as a human due to the fallout. He walks gingerly over the ghost of symbols he can feel imprinted on the ground; an echo of their power remains here and will for some time, though he doesn't recognize the ritual. Doesn't know what Anael was trying to accomplish, nor is he interested in driving his consciousness through the morass.

He's already well inside the warehouse, moving steadily towards whoever is on the altar, when a force more powerful than anything he has ever felt slams into him, pins him in midair. Its power dwarfs him, overwhelms him, and he wonders for an insane moment if this is God.

_Angel_ he hears in the language of his people, and it chills him.

"Did you know?" The voice sears through him, discordant in a way an angel could never manage because they were made to sing. It blinds him, further mutes his senses, forces him deeper into the body he inhabits. Castiel opens his human eyes.

Mary Winchester has-has changed. Her eyes glow, lit from the inside by Anael's Grace. Castiel sees it, recognizes it, transmuted through it is. It's joined with her human soul and together those forces are exponentially greater than they are apart.

"What have you done?" Castiel asks reflexively, dumbly. Her grip tightens, Grace and anger spilling over and scalding Castiel, who girds himself to fight even though he cannot win. He pulls at her fingers, trying to peel them from his body, but his struggles have no effect.

_Mary,_ he tries. There's no word for her in his language-rather, it's the series of impressions and shared memories that differentiate her from everyone else, how he sees her-saw her. It's a panicked, automatic reaction but it works. She pulls back and considers Castiel, looks _into_ him to gauge his sincerity and that...she peels the layers away from Castiel and sees everything within him. All of existence encapsulated in a single being and she sees it all, each action that brought Castiel to this very moment. He gasps, struggling against her grip, and when his most inner self flushes dark with agony she realizes she's been causing him pain with her intrusion, that she's touching the very depths of him without even trying. He should have shields, she thinks, and when she looks sees them shattered in the wake of her passage. She lets him go and stumbles away, trying to stopper the power, push it down and shut it tight but it wells up and spills over and will not be contained.

She can't...this won't be controlled. She tries to hang on to herself, to this awareness, but it rises like a tsunami, inexorable and dragging her sanity with it. Abruptly the warehouse around them disappears as if it never existed. Because it never was, always just a suggestion, a bit of showy prestidigitation. She laughs and sees the sound instead of hearing it, waves lengthening and shortening, λ3=4/3L⇒f3=Vs/λ2=3Vs/4L=3f1. Watches the notes and the cadence flow out from her and knock into the eddies of the air around them, bounce off the skeleton of a leaf and shake it into loose ash.

She can see how everything in the world fits except for her. She is an abomination the world curves to accommodate instead of the other way around. She could destroy this place if she wanted, leave it stripped and incomplete; could unmake the entire world under the right circumstances, pulling the right thread. Circumstances that are fast approaching. She smiles and reaches out.

Fate swirls around her, an maelstrom where the lines get tangled and change and then surge out again. There's one line in constant flux that she follows to-

"Father." She doesn't have to physically move; intent and want are synonymous with movement now, and she appears beside him. He's...he's breathing. A flattened lump of ancient iron, melted and forged by her own hand, sits atop his forehead. There's a small knot of faded scar tissue between his eyes but other than that he is perfect. There are no scars, no age fatigue or wear in his joints. His cells are young and healthy, and she sets the telomeres with a fleeting thought. She feels relief and grief all at once, too much to process, so she gently sets it aside. His body is as perfect and human as it can be.

"You did this," Castiel accuses, his voice rough. Her hand print stands out livid and pink at his throat. He can't look at Dean; his space is a gaping vortex of emptiness, Castiel either gets lost trying to parse him or his eyes skitter right over his space. His very being rejects whatever mockery Anael and Mary have made of Dean's sacrifice. He reaches for the bullet, its history calling to him, but Mer closes her hand around it.

"I could not let him die." Mortal languages are so achingly imprecise, she finds. They convey nothing of the anguish the very thought causes; nothing of the encompassing sense of loss. She pulls her father's amulet from underneath his shirt. She turns the bullet into a charm, hanging alongside the talisman, imbued with protection.

"You should not have done this. I have learned much from Dean. He values his freedom over all things."

"Except his family," Mer says, smoothing Dean's hair from his forehead. She seems entranced. "He'll always be a slave to family."

"A choice. A sacrifice. You took that from him."

"Then you'll have to apologize for me," she says, her tone distant and absent. Castiel feels anger rise in him at her unwillingness to acknowledge the obscenity she has abetted.

"That was not your place-" Mer turns on him, righteous anger burning brighter and hotter than it did before. It lashes out at Castiel, scouring his true form. He stumbles backwards.

"Do not tell me of my _place,"_ Mer says in a language never before spoken on Earth. Grace begins to leak out around her edges. "It it was not your _place_ to create me!" Thunder rolls and the earth shakes. Even unconscious Dean cringes and whimpers at the assault, which probably saves Castiel's life when Mer abruptly turns back to her father, anger abating as quickly as it arose. She carefully-far more carefully that she did with Castiel-begins to peel back the layers that make up her father, checking to ensure he is unharmed.

"I...do not understand," Castiel says, wary of the mercurial being before him. He knows her now. Knows what she is, what Anael gave her life and her Grace to create. She is the first of her kind to set foot on the earth in over ten thousand years, though he has never heard of a nephilim being created in this way.

Mer looks at him, suspicious. Castiel watches the suspicion grow and twist into fear, paranoia, and burgeoning violence. The emotions consume and inflame her. For the first time Castiel realizes that he is truly in grave danger, that this newborn creature has no control and the power to obliterate him. He reacts on instinct and swells, true form emerging, trusting Dean is too injured to see him. His true voice shakes the trees.

**::A fool expresses all his anger, but a wise man holds it back and calms himself.::** Said vehemently enough to startle Mary out of the violent spiral her thoughts have taken. Castiel gazes down sternly at her, filled with righteousness. **::Remember the lessons of your Father. Be still.::**

Mer closes her eyes and inhales, dives into the depths of her mind and centers herself. She finds the quiet, emotionless place that allows her the clarity of though to acknowledge that Castiel does not deserve her fury. That _no one_ deserves what she was about to do, and that scares her.

"I know," she says softly, feeling the truth of Castiel's confusion as to what happened here. And she truly does know; the past unfurls in her mind as if it were always there. Anael had treated them all like pawns on a chess board, moving and manipulating them to an agenda only she understood, often pasting it together on the fly. She had no grand unified plan, no exit strategy-she'd done whatever she could to derail both sides, hoping to delay things enough to prevent the Apocalypse. Mer feels a certain amount of grudging, resentful respect for her ruthlessness. Perhaps she should learn from it.

But her new found understanding also underscores how inevitable this Apocalypse has become. She needs a plan and a lack of distractions.

"I have to go," she says to Castiel. He looks so lost, standing in the middle of the warehouse, charred ground beneath his feet. There's a vicious kind of smugness in knowing someone's as lost as she. She ruthlessly tamps it down.

Mer slings her father over her shoulder and walks a thousand miles in a step. Castiel can only watch her go.

Karen's washing dishes when her house suddenly shakes. She drops a plate in the sink and sees it shatter, only to watch time pause then reverse itself, the plate sealing back together and jumping into her hands as if nothing happened.

"You will do this for me." Karen spins around, reconstituted plate clutched to her chest. Mer stands in front of her, a much larger person draped over her shoulder, almost dwarfing her though she's not struggling with the weight. She looks dangerous. Hard.

"Mary! What on Earth-" Mer glides past her and careful lays the body onto the kitchen table. Karen gapes for a moment because it's Dean and he looks dead. "Oh my God, what happened?" Karen takes Dean's pulse, finds it steady and strong. He's pale and too thin, dark smudges under his eyes. There's a silver knot of scar tissue in the middle of his forehead, an old scar but new to her, that she reaches out to touch. She shivers and draws her hand away quickly.

Karen shifts her attention to her...Dean's daughter. Mary looks more unforgiving than ever and there's an unnatural stillness about her. Karen wants to ask what's happened in the world since they banished her here, how the fight's going, but she stops herself. Baby steps, let Mary come to her. This is the first time she's seen anyone not of Clinch in months. Months that have run together until she can't keep track of them.

But with Mer staring at her father like she's never going to see him again, Karen can't help but push.

"You should sit down, I'll get-"

"I am leaving," Mer says abruptly. "Take care of him."

"Where are you going?" Karen asks. She shivers under Mer's gaze. There's a frightening amount of gravitas to it.

"He will not remember. When he wakes up. There is a-spell, a powerful one. The town will remember Dee. He has been their handyman since his family died when he was young. You will remember him too, but you will also know the truth. You are the only other person in the world who knows who he really is. Don't fuck it up." She touches the scar then turns to go. Panic seizes Karen and she reaches out to grab Mer's arm.

"No! You can't just leave him here!" Mer turns with her grip, follows it right into Karen's space, crowding close and eyes flashing. _Glowing._

"I am leaving the only thing I love in this world with you," she says, low and soft. Karen can't be sure but she thinks the house is trembling; she finds herself unable to look away from Mer's eyes, pinpoints of light where dark pupils should be. "I need him to be safe. And I am trusting _you._" Karen covers her mouth, her heart breaking at the rawness in Mer's voice. She can only nod, because she can't refuse.

Impulsively, Karen pulls Mer into a hug. The girl is stiff her arms but Karen isn't deterred. Eventually she has to let go and force herself to step away. To let this young woman she desperately wants to know go. Mer turns her head sharply to the south, eyes unfocused and far away.

"Sam," she says, like a curse, and it's the most human she's sounded since she got here. "I have to-promise me." Karen glances at Dean, breathing slowly on her kitchen table, and then to Mer and the wild, barely-leashed air of danger around her.

"He'll be safe here," she promises, dogging Mer's quick steps through the house. "I will do whatever I can." Mer pauses at the door, looks at her and nods.

"You will both be protected." Karen shivers, something hot racing over her nerve endings. Mer turns and walks down the road without looking back. Her steps leave deep footprints in the hard-packed Earth.

"Who's that?" Karen starts, heart beating rapidly, and turns around. Dee-Dean, no, that's...he's Dee, the boy who is of all but belongs to none. He came here late last night because her sink pump jammed, they'd shared a drink and he crashed on her couch. He bashfully rubs his neck and smiles at her through his lashes. "Sorry about intruding on you. Didn't think the cider would hit me that hard."

"It's...it's no problem," Karen says, pasting a tremulous smile on her face whilst desperately trying to keep disparate strains of knowledge straight in her head. He's Dee and he's Dean; but he's not Dean anymore. Not yet.

"Your sink is fixed. Let me know if it gives you any problems." She watches him glance in the direction Mer went, brow wrinkling when he can't place her amongst the denizens of Clinch. "Friend of yours?"

"What? Oh, it's...complicated. I'd like to know her better."

"So she's someone worth knowing, then?" Dee asks, gently teasing her. Karen smiles and touches his face. She knows the history of Dee, who lost his family in a winter storm when he was four, who was raised by a village, so smart but never able to commit to just one thing which is what makes him such a good handyman. The most eligible bachelor in Clinch but aside from a smattering of dalliances he never did settle down. Behind those memories, so vivid and bright, is the story of Dean, a man who loved so strongly he built himself a family and then lost them all. Even himself.

"I think you'd love her," Karen says with absolute conviction. Dean shrugs, already starting to forget.

Sam's eyes are wide and unseeing, cast to places Alistair cannot fathom. Lilu pokes him in the shoulder but Samael doesn't react. Doesn't react to anything-pain, pleasure, blood, illusion, summoning rituals. He's still in there somewhere, Alastair knows it, but he's inaccessible.

This, he reminds himself, is why he didn't just have Dean Winchester removed in the first place.

He sits back and thinks. There's a way to salvage this. There has to be.

There's no pain. That's the worst part, that it doesn't hurt. Just miles of numbness and a single memory on repeat.

Dean's death should have come with fire and brimstone and shards of glass cutting into his skin. Loud explosions and chaotic mess, a blaze of glory. Instead it was a neat red circle in the middle of his forehead and the gentle welling of dark red blood.

Sam watches the moment right before the bullet hit, Dean bent backwards and looking off to one side. The bullet, round at the top, just barely presses a dent into Dean's skin. It rotates slowly.

Sam steps forward to look at it. The bullet shines with power; there are etchings on it, runes. Death, obliteration. He allows time to speed up a little, watches it split Dean's skin, the heat of it slightly cauterizing the wound, breaking through the brittle skull and peircing the brain.

Dean falls, blood falls-and this close Sam can see the grayish brain matter mixed in with the red-and the world rewinds.

Sam watches Mary fire the gun, face blank. Sees the bullet explode from the barrel and speed towards Dean.

No matter what he does he cannot change things. So he sits in his memory, relives it from every angle. Watches Dean die knowing he could have stopped it.

Sam never thought Mer could. Or would. And that is Sam's fault for underestimating her.

He touches Dean for the first time in too long, tracing the contours of his brother's face, and he feels a spark. He feels _life._ It takes some searching but he tracks it down, a paper-thin thread that resonates Dean, fleeting and ephemeral. A brush against the world. He finds others, some stronger, some faded, some barely recognizable as his brother. But as he digs and learns what to look for he laughs.

There are a hundred Deans. A thousand. An infinite number of them. But he only needs one. He finds the brightest, biggest thread and tugs.

Sam snaps back to awareness and stands abruptly, a manic grin on his face.

"Samael!" Alastair scrambles to his feet. Sam turns towards him, just slightly, but Alastair can _feel_ his regard. "Good. What better way to take revenge than-"

"I will have Dean," Samael says, his voice a deep rasp. He reaches out, grasps the string, and lets it carry him away. He disappears before Alastair can say anything.

"So _dramatic_," Alastair sighs, irritated. His minions start coming out from the woodwork now that Sam's awake and gone. Alastair hums, and thinks. He can give Sam...three weeks to have his post-Dean temper-tantrum. That will put them on a fairly tight timeline to raise Lucifer but he can convince Zachariah to break a few of the Seals himself. Controlling bastard probably prefers it that way. And by the time they're done Alastair will make sure Samael is gagging for Lucifer to take him.

There's a moment of complete silence before the ground beneath his feet lurches, the Earth actually stalling for a moment before shuddering forward. Alastair's awareness of Sam snaps; the power backlash drives him up and out of his host, drained and disoriented. He feels weaker than the first time his eyes had gone black. Sam has left the _world._

"Sa-am. Sammy Sam Sam," Lilu sing-songs, arching up into the overload and moaning obscenely through the pain. The crazy fucker managed to retain his body and he collapses in a giggling heap, buries his face in a cowering hellhound's fur. He looks up at Alistair and sticks his tongue out. "Sammy did a bad, bad thing."

Alastair gathers his wits and throws himself back in his host body, only a little worse for the wear. He sits up; the demons closest to him are either discorporated or drooling vegetables.

"SAM!" Alastair howls. He kicks at Lilu, still moaning and rolling on the ground.

"When Sam is bad he's very, very bad!" Lilu says mock-seriously, then giggles, high and hysterical. Lilu reaches into one of the empty, brain-dead black eyed demons and pulls out what's left. He starts stripping it down for parts. "He's going to steal fair maiden's heart and turn the world to fire and brimstone!"

Alastair is tempted to rend Lilu limb from limb but right now it's testing his limits to just possess this body. Sam is gone.

Sam is _gone._ And he's taken all of Alastair's carefully laid plans for him and _ruined the Apocalypse._ The one he's spent countless generations organization, that has survived several major setbacks and illegal moves but cannot go forward _without its linchpin._

Alastair roars his frustration, leveling the room around him, then settles. He needs a plan. He is very good at planning, just look at the world. If he can't have the Apocalypse, then he will rend this world to the bone and suck out the marrow just because he can.

Mer walks from Karen's house to the town's boundary, weaving her power into the place. The wards slide over her skin, straining around her as she stops them from tripping-she pushed her luck barreling through them the first time. The only reason they didn't break because they knew her.

Gran Emer and George are waiting for her.

"Oh, my child," George says, heartbreak in his voice.

"Not yours," Mer says.

"Not anymore," Gran Emer agrees, harder than her counterpart. His balance. "But he is. And you'll bind him to us tight if you're to do this thing."

"You could not stop me," she says.

"Foolish child," Gran Emer hisses, and the sudden up swell of power makes Mer stagger back and away, hand raised in automatic defense. The land roils beneath her feet, rejects her very presence. "You are newborn. You know not what power lives in us." They join hands and they burn. Mer looks down at her hand, blistered and red. The feeling recedes and her flesh knits back together. She looks at them, eyes wide, and here is the girl they met not so long ago.

"Keep him happy," she says, as much a plea as she is capable of.

"We accept this burden; we will keep him. Love him. He will be content, but he will never be happy here, Mary Winchester."

"Then keep him safe."

"Aye," George says. Gran Emer shakes out the quilt wrapped around her shoulders. George takes the other side and the spread it between then. "That we can do. Tell us about Dee, child."

The quilt is thread and cloth and skill and the people of Clinch. It's their stories, their lives, worked into the fabric by George and Gran Emer's own hands. The metaphorical fabric of the town in literal form.

Despite the urgency-she's not quite sure what Sam's up to but whatever it is is really fucking stupid and currently unraveling parts of the world-she adds her own layer, working Dee's history into the very foundation of the town's protections, encouraging it to accept him as its own. She bolsters the existing wards while she's at it, gleaning more of the town's history from them, and encourages them to stay strong. She finds Emer and George, the town's Wardens so intrinsically tied to this place that they can never leave, and gives them a gift: they'll be the longest serving Wardens this place has ever known.

Finished, she takes a moment to herself, caressing the colorful patch that represents Dee. He doesn't look like Dean, not really. But enough. George and Gran Emer inspect her work and find it satisfactory.

"Go, child. Or this will be for naught." George tucks the quilt around her thin shoulders, and the two of them share a private smile. With one last look at Mer they turn and begin a slow, measured walk back towards Clench. Mer hides their memories of herself and a man named Dean Winchester, the knowledge fading with every step they take.

When they're out of sight she continues down the mangled concrete road. Behind her the path to Clinch gets swallowed by the forest, saplings unfurling and growing tall. Ferns cover the ground in lush foliage. The crops will grow plentifully and the weather will always be mild. Elsewhere in the world, maps fade and change, and this place becomes just another expanse of empty forest in the mountains, no roads leading to or from. Certain books lose paragraphs, web pages vanish into the ether and an angel slowly forgets something he once knew.

Mer closes her eyes and steps through the world directly into Sam's path, into the space between worlds.

"This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine." ~Shakespeare


	41. Book Three: Epilogue

"I can honestly say I didn't see that coming," Alastair says, fingers drumming against the table. The High Circle of Hell surrounds him. "Mary would be my favorite if she weren't so inconvenient." Alastair sighs. There's always a spot on his racks for a parricide. They make the best demons, too.

"We have lost," Moloch hisses. He briefly loses his control, the walls cracking and lights flickering. "And you _didn't see it coming?"_

"Third time's a charm," Alastair says nonchalantly, smirking. "We can't unleash Lucifer without the Winchesters, it's true. But that doesn't mean we can't still have an apocalypse." Abaddon leans forward, eyes sparking with interest, tasting the slant of Alastair's thoughts. Always thirsting for violence and wanton destruction. Where Abaddon goes, Belial, Astaroth, and Pythius follow. Moloch doesn't command the same following.

"And technically, the Apocalypse is still on, the climax is just delayed."

"Another millennia watching this seething pit of putrid feculence try and prove their relevance in the cosmos while we wait for Lucifer to pick at the screws of his cage?" Moloch challenges. "For the Bloodlines to come together again?" He Fell with Lucifer, one of the lesser angels thoroughly disgusted with humanity, and Alastair can see his dark wings winking in and out of existence behind him. It would be so easy draw his blade down the length of the Fallen's back, sever the wings at the root and watch Asmodeus die screaming.

They've spent several thousand years setting this Apocalypse up, laying the foundation until there was no option but to see it through till the end once the first part had been set in motion, like a tidal wave building far out at sea and only detectable when it gets near land. They've already made the wave; it's only a matter of _when_ it breaks at this point.

"Well, only if you _want_ to wait for Lucy to get his act together. I, personally, have waited long enough."

"You have an alternative." Abaddon's beady eyes gleam in anticipation. Alastair conjures a gold piece-one of the ones paid unto Judas-and lets it dance across his knuckles.

"I think we should take a look at this little graveyard in Wyoming. With the right Key, Lucifer will walk this world again. And in the mean time, no one said we had to wait for _him_ to eradicate humanity."

He hates this house. It's a forlorn place, filled with broken dreams and the weight of other people's memories. The loneliness follows him into the waking world and lingers with him. Is it the waking world? Is this the dream and that the truth?

He likes the other place better; it's filled with people who know him, warm days and pot-luck dinners. He's got work and a purpose and he doesn't _need_ family. Doesn't matter that sometimes it feels fake and wrong. That someone forgot to fill in his colors and has left him grey and shadowed in a light-filled world. It's better than this place. This emptiness.

He huddles against the front door, which never opens. There's dust everywhere, even in the air. He can see it moving through the low light that makes its way past the grime on the windows, a sickly yellow.

There's a break in the filth where he wiped away some of the dirt the first time he dreamed this place. That's another thing, how his dreams here carry over, like his footprints on the floor or a few of the objects he's moved from the table in front of him. He never remembers his dreams. Except for this one. Which never seems to end, the hours stretching before him, trapped in a foyer. He calls it a dream because he does not eat. Feels no hunger, no thirst, no needs. This cannot be real. (Right?)

He considers, briefly, going up the stairs and he's seized with such terror that he hyperventilates and passes out. Weird, that you can do that in a dream. But this is not the first time. He glares balefully at the shadowed steps and waits to wake up. To feel warmth again.

A thump cuts through the gloomy atmosphere and his heart beats double-time. He's never heard a sound here, unless he made it himself. He strains to hear more. After a moment he hears footsteps, light and muffled. He shrinks back into a corner as far as he can go and tries to make himself wake up, though that's never worked before.

He wishes he were anywhere but _here._

Sam and Mer have disappeared. Heaven and Hell can find no trace of them in all of the cosmos. Alastair plots, and Zachariah levels Tokyo in his wrath. The world receives a brief respite-seven days and seven nights where the supernatural world remains quiet and the war pauses.

Then Alastair releases a virus that turns people into extras from _28 Days Later._ It wipes out the entire population of Lawrence, Kansas, then crops up in London and Cairo and Los Angeles all at once. It spreads quickly, ruthless and efficient. There is no cure, nor any chance of one: science is not the basis for this disease.

Castiel finds Bobby and Missouri and what is left of Dean's Hunters. He inoculates who he can, cleanses the infection before it can really take hold, but he's weakening every day, cut off from Heaven and hiding from his brethren. Zachariah has put a bounty on him. He must conserve his strength. There's only so much they can do so humanity retreats, hides behind high fences and locked doors.

Castiel almost destroys himself setting up a haven for what's left of the hinters. A place Bobby knew called Camp Chitaqua, that offers lodging and defenses for their community, and by the time Castiel is done it's nearly impervious to both demonic and angelic forces. He's overstretched and exhausted in the aftermath and stumbles into a trap. He fights, blindly, wildly, with no hope of survival. He's still not sure how he escaped, what or who saved him. Maybe it wasn't anyone and just luck. He doesn't have time to wonder-the fight rages on.

The only thing he does know is it wasn't God.

Bobby has taken up leadership of the middle of the country, Kai is running things on the East Coast and Rufus is marshaling the Western states. Missouri moves between them, her powers shifting and changing as she adapts to this new environment.

More and more Seals break, more and more demons walk the Earth, and humanity's numbers are dwindling. But they fight on, tenacious and adamant, with no Savior to lead them.


	42. Book Four: Prologue

**Title:** Apotheosis  
**Rating:** Mature  
**Pairing:** evil!Sam/Dean; several implied/unrequited relationships  
**Word Count:** 47,488  
**Warnings:** gore and violence; codependency; angst; darkness; evil!Sam  
**Summary:** a·poth·e·o·sis (n. - əˌpɒθɪˈəʊsɪs): (1) deification; (2) glorification of a person; (3) a glorified ideal; (4) the best or greatest time or event

In this time, in this place-all of these and none of these are true.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

the space between worlds is H(X)=[ε^n where i=1]p(xi)log(b)1/[p(xi)=-[ε^n where i=1]p(xi)logbP(xi)

it is falling

Ø

without anything to slow you

to touch, to mark the

p̶a̶s̶s̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶f̶ time or depth or speed it is

Entr o P y

This place is asymptote, forever racing towards Ø but never achieving it, except there are Two, One and One, falling together, light years apart and so close they almost touch. This cannot be.

The equation is unbalanced it cannot willnot support/allow/containlimit-

Their expulsion ripples outwards, shakes earth and sky and space.

They shine like stars falling through the atmosphere, leaving bright trails in their wake. Creatures on the surface scramble to divine their meaning and fall prostrate as the force of their landing, at exact opposite points on the Earth. Where the shock waves of their reentry meet, water spouts several hundred feet in the air. it crashes down, sending a tsunami racing towards the coasts.

One slams into ice and rock, the ground giving way with a screaming groan. The ice melts to steam and the rocks glow red with heat. The sky turns dark with soil and ash. There are mountains here, now. Jagged bits of earth thrust towards the sky, rising high like prison walls around a deep cratered pit and splintering outwards like imperfections in the earth. For a moment there are no shadows, light shining at the center of this newly formed mountain range, melted rocks glowing with transferred heat. But it fades into darkness, the barest hint of sky slipping in from above.

In the darkness One draws breath. And another. There is a rush of sensation, overwhelming and incomprehensible. Too bright, too loud, too coarse and obscene. She blinks, and then again, and thinks _blue_ without understanding. 467 nm.

She staggers to her feet in panic that is both new and familiar; she has felt this sense-blindness before, though not as all-encompassing, and takes strength from the fact that she can survive, move past it, regain what is missing. She cannot hear the Song, her constant companion. She searches for it, desperate, reaching out with everything and there's the sound of crystal breaking, pure and resonating, and a sigh of relief when she sees the sinuous, tantalizing beauty of pi curl languidly around the confines of the earth wherein she stands.

The sinus rhythm of her heartbeat curls into an eddy of air. Da-dum. Knowledge and understanding comes back, slowly. Language, limited but necessary. Imprecise.

She kneels and touches the earth, allows her awareness to expand-not too far, she's still too unsure of what marks the boundaries of herself for that-. The force of her impact stretches for miles, a dark cloud of dirt and ash from her reentry coalescing above her. The land has changed, she has changed it, and she slowly casts herself outwards until-_Him_.

There is a place that used to rise to the sky, reaching higher than life was meant to go, that is no more. He stands amidst the wreckage, feet on the ground, and revels in the chaos and destruction.

He senses her then and she careens back, into the most contained version of herself, but his hate and anger follow her, score the flesh from her bones and leave angry blisters in their wake. She gasps into the pain and hears a sound her sluggish mind eventually labels laughter for lack of a more precise word for the harsh, abrasive sound.

Beneath the laughter there is a whispered promise that seeps into the very core of the earth-Vengeance.


End file.
